


How to Screw It All Up by A. J. Crowley

by esterized



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley needs so many damn hugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kid Fic, Love, M/M, Married Couple, Parenthood, family unit, mental health, soft, soft bois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-12 12:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20564630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esterized/pseuds/esterized
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley take a trip to the countryside at the beginning of spring with their now five-year-old daughter to get away from the general hubbub of city life for a week, or two. It's a time for rest, relaxation, and some much needed family time but on their second day there things start to go... a little off the rails and soon, Crowley just wants to disappear.Can he fix everything that he's broken?





	1. Everything Starts to Break

“Mr Elephant wants more tea, daddy,” Rose chimed in her usual cheery voice that warmed Crowley’s heart through and through until he thought that he might actually burst. She was holding out said stuffed elephant, expertly dubbed Mr Elephant, expectantly, and a small, determined frown was now forming on her brow as she waited for her father to do as she asked.

“Oh, of course, _of course_, angel. And how is he liking the scones?” Crowley responded, picking up the brightly coloured, plastic teapot and pretending to pour out a serving of fresh ‘tea’ into Mr Elephant’s designated teacup. “Would anyone else care for a top up? M’lady? Samuel? Ms. Daisy? Sir Hedgehog?”

Rose shook her head emphatically as though her father had just asked the stupidest question that could ever have been asked. He feigned his most sincere apologies as he placed the teapot back down (after refilling his own cup, of course) and took a long, loud pretend sip with his little finger extended to show his elite class. Rose giggled at him as she watched her father make a fool of himself for her pleasure, yet again.

They had been playing afternoon tea for the better part of an hour, after coming in from the garden to leave Aziraphale to his peace and quiet. He had just acquired a first-edition copy of an old favourite of his that he had been desperate to obtain since its release over a century ago and if he hadn’t been tending to their daughter for the entirety of the drive down from London then it would have already been read at least twice from cover to cover and Crowley would have been subjected to at least one full review, including (but not limited to) in depth descriptions of his favourite moments and why Crowley simply _must _read it.

This is how Crowley now found himself lying flat on his stomach on the old, worn rug in the living room of their small cottage in the South Downs with his feet swinging in the air behind him, across from his daughter. She was perfectly lost in the world of make believe, sat with her little, yet long, legs stretched out and boxing off the tea party that was taking place in between them.

She was tall for her age, adopting her father’s ridiculously long limbs of course, but her features were still baby-like, full of love and innocence, just like her other father’s. Today, on their little family get away, she was wearing dungarees with an old yellow t-shirt underneath, both of which were splattered with soil stains after her eventful morning in the garden with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was now out in the back garden, lounging on his favourite chair and soaking up the spring sunshine while he continued to read his book, practically wiggling where he stood when Crowley emerged from the bedroom around noon to relieve him of parenting duties and to tempt them all to a spot of lunch. As much as Aziraphale loved and adored his daughter, she was five and therefore she was tiring on the best of days so he welcomed the chance for some peace and quiet after their busy, and messy, morning.

“What’s papa reading?” Rose asked as she set Mr Elephant back down in his designated seat and looked up at him with those big, blue eyes that bore into his soul. Crowley would have preferred it if she’d inherited Aziraphale’s hair than his eyes, they had a way of making his insides melt.

“I’m afraid that’s something you’ll have to ask him, Rosie-posie, because between you and me,” he raised his hand to the edge of his mouth to signal this next bit was a secret between the two of them. “I haven’t the foggiest idea, darling.”

“He likes reading,” she commented, absentmindedly.

“Yes, he does.”

“But you don’t.”

“No,” said Crowley. He had never been a fan of reading, not since the humans first decided it would be a good idea to bother putting pen to paper but he put his dislike for the stuff aside for his daughter, and _only_ his daughter as much as Aziraphale liked to pretend that he had had some influence in the matter. “But I like reading with you.”

“I like reading,” she mused to herself, mimicking Aziraphale to near perfection whenever he got lost in thought. “Why don’t you like it, daddy?”

Crowley spluttered, the familiar stream of incoherent sounds slipping past his lips as he stumbled over his thoughts to land on the right words. “I… I-I just don’t, angel. Papa reads enough for the both of us, and I just never got around to it, you know?”

“But,” she paused to play with the hair of the doll dubbed Ms. Daisy. “But you read with me sometimes so… so, do you n-not like that?”

Crowley slithered into a seated position as quickly as, well as _in_humanly possible. He stretched out a hand and cupped her small, pale face to bring her eyes to his own yellow ones. “Rose, I _love_ reading with you. Nothing makes me happier. We’ll read tonight, how about that?”

Her bright blue eyes lit up at the thought and she beamed a bright, toothy smile. “Okay! Can we read that Jekyll and hid book again? Pleeeeease?”

“Jekyll and Hyde? Of course,” Crowley nodded, leaning across the tea set between them to plant a soft kiss to her forehead.

Rose giggled at the touch and scrunched up her nose as she always did when her father kissed her on the top of her head. “Stop being so silly, daddy,” she sniggered. “You’ve upset Sir Hedgehog, now you have to give everyone else a big kiss.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at his daughter, still disbelieving that he was about to go through with this demand. If someone had told him ten years ago that he would have averted the apocalypse, befriended the antichrist, finally confessed his feelings to Aziraphale after so long, had a daughter with said angel, and would now be willing to kiss said daughter’s toys just to please her, then he would have called them undoubtedly bonkers and never let them speak such nonsense to him again.

But here he was, lifting each toy to his lips to deliver each an overexaggerated kiss just to please her. As he placed the last back down in their individually designated seat, he looked over to see Rose giggling uproariously into her hands. He placed his hands on his hips in fake annoyance.

“Now, does papa require one or is everyone happy and no longer upset?”

“Papa needs the BIGGEST one of ALL!!!” she beamed, jumping up to her feet and hopping on the spot until her father joined her to deliver said kiss.

Crowley sighed heavily, stood up, and allowed himself to be dragged ‘unwillingly’ into the garden where Aziraphale was happily lounging with a book positioned perfectly on his lap, flipping a page as the two of them walked out there.

“Oh, hello darling,” Aziraphale addressed to his daughter as she marched toward him with determination, Crowley in tow rolling his eyes at him. “What are you both doing out–”

Crowley stepped forward and planted a loud kiss on the angel’s lips while declaring: “Mwah! There!” enthusiastically.

Aziraphale looked utterly bewildered, confused at everything that was going on. He squinted his eyes up at Crowley, silently demanding an answer as the demon stood up straight again.

“Apparently I upset all attending the tea party by my kissing only Rose here. Therefore, I had to make it up to everyone by giving _them_ all a kiss. You included of course, angel.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale echoed, still slightly confused by the entire situation.

Crowley picked up Rose, resting her on his bony hip and bobbing her up and down. She laughed hysterically, wrapping her arms around his neck to hold on. He beamed at her as her long, curly, bright red hair bounced around her face madly, covering her face as she moved about.

“Ha! Ha, stop it, daddy! Stop!” she managed to get out past the giggles. He eventually stopped and let her catch her breath, fully aware that Aziraphale’s eyes were on him, watching the two of them closely.

“How’s the book?” Crowley asked Aziraphale as he waited for Rose to calm down and catch her breath. Aziraphale snapped out of his odd little trance and picked up the book he had abandoned on his lap in their arrival to disturb him.

“Oh! Ah, it’s very interesting. And the previous owner left all these _delightful_ little notes in the margins. They are _most_ fascinating. I will tell you all about it later, don’t you worry.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Crowley smiled sarcastically–well, he at least told himself it was sarcasm, but the truth of the matter was that Crowley loved it when Aziraphale let him in on his thoughts on something he was particularly passionate about, it was like getting a sneak peek at an expert craftsman at work. He turned to Rose whose giggling had subsided enough for her to focus. “What do you say about baking up some cookies?”

Rose’s face lit up instantly, before exclaiming, “Cookies! Yes, yes!”

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, “Right. Get back to your book and your lounging or… ngk, whatever it is you’re doing out here. See you later.” And with that he headed back into the old cottage, daughter still situated on his hip, as they made their way to the kitchen. “Okay, missy. What kind of cookies are we thinking?”

“Chocolate chip!”

After rummaging around in the cupboards, they finally found all the ingredients they needed, all aside from some fresh eggs which was quickly resolved with a minor miracle. The kitchen was a certifiable mess once they had completed their prep and placed two full trays of raw cookie dough filled with chocolate chips into the oven. The father and daughter were extremely satisfied with their work.

Rose was now covered in a mixture of soil from her morning adventures, raw cookie dough, and flour. Crowley had not escaped the flying flour that came his way and his typically tight black shirt and jeans were now covered with so much of the white substance that it was beginning to look a lot like one of Aziraphale’s shirts instead–that or a drug den after a deal gone wrong.

He had Rose stand on her stool to fill the sink up with warm soapy water ready to wash up their mess as he removed the perfectly baked cookies from the oven and placed them individually on the cooling tray they had set up on the round dining table in the centre of the kitchen. Once he was done transferring all the baked goods over, he went over to assist her with the washing up, standing behind her with his arms wrapped around her own, as they worked to clean up the significant amount of mess they had made.

“Can we eat them yet?” she asked as Crowley placed the last dish onto the drying rack. She jumped down from her stool and landed on the stone flooring with a soft _thump_.

“Not yet. We’ve got to finish cleaning up while they cool, _then_ we can have some. Grab a tea towel, please.”

Rose did as she was asked and began drying off the plates they had washed, putting them back into their rightful places in the cupboards once they were sufficiently dry and approved by Crowley. Once they had finished tidying the kitchen and wiping down all surfaces the two of them got dressed into some fresh clothes, Crowley into a clean, and equally tight, black shirt, while Rose elected to change into her Spiderman suit.

Crowley had tried arguing that there were other clothes in her closet that would have maybe been better for the afternoon but she was resolute in her decision to wear the suit–stubborn to the core, just like both her father’s (honestly, as to which one this was _actually_ inherited from, your guess is as good as mine).

As adorable as Rose managed to look in her wide range of superhero costumes (and it was _quite_ an impressive collection), it made Crowley actively want to murder everyone in the shop and then himself whenever he was tasked with buying them. Standing there in their local shop with any and all superhero costumes he could bring himself to buy draped over his arm made him, in the moment, wish that he had not managed to avert the apocalypse and that it would have been better for everyone if the powers of Hell dragged him back to head office there and then.

When they finally emerged from her bedroom, Rose now dressed proudly in her Spidey-suit, Crowley felt… off. It wasn’t anything _bad_, he thought, slightly unsure of that himself, but something definitely felt different and wrong, as though he was underwater or watching himself walking behind his daughter from behind a glass screen.

“_Now_ can we have cookies?” Rose begged, bouncing as she walked back to the kitchen, her big blue eyes staring up at her father with all the hope in the world.

“Yes, alright,” Crowley sighed as she clambered up onto her chair and shoved a cookie into her mouth, dropping crumbs everywhere. “How’d we do, Rosie?”

“Mm. Good,” she mumbled past the mouth full of cookie dough and chocolate chips. Holding out a fresh cookie to him with her spare hand. “Have one. They’re super scrummy, daddy.”

Crowley took the cookie from his daughter and nibbled at the edge of it. It wasn’t that bad a cookie, as they go, although he had never been a massive fan of sweet foods and would much rather eat something savoury if given the choice, despite Aziraphale and Rose’s affinity for such foods.

He set the cookie back down on the tray and watched his daughter for a moment. Something still felt very _wrong_ but he couldn’t pinpoint _what_. Everything seemed perfectly fine… maybe he was just settling into the country lifestyle for the week again, that sometimes took him by surprise–being away from the hubbub and never-ending noise that came with London life.

_“Do you want to share any cookies with papa?” _Crowley found himself asking, but the words seemed muffled in his ears as though heard through a wall.

Rose furrowed her brow as she picked up a second cookie and took a bite, thinking over the question until she was sure of her answer. “Mm, no.”

_“And why ever is that, angel?”_

A defined frown formed on her face as she looked up at her father. “B-Because… they’re mine. Papa didn’t help make them so he doesn’t deserve any cookies, and _I_ made them so I should have them. I want to eat them, and they’re mine!” Rose debated, before finally snatching the tray and pulling it away from her father.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of Crowley’s mind he was angry, ready to scold his daughter for such selfishness and such greed and such anger but you would never have known from his face. Through slit pupils he watched his daughter shovel a third and fourth cookie into her mouth as a sly smile slithered onto his lips. What on earth was he doing?

“_Excellent idea, angel. I think you should keep all of them to yourssssself,” _Crowley hissed, unable to stop himself.

“Yes! They’re all mine!”

Rose proceeded to eat as many cookies as quickly as she could before hiding the last few in her toy chest so that no-one else would be able to eat them between now and when she was hungry again. Crowley watched her intently from the kitchen table, finger covering his lips as he soaked in what he was watching.

Inside, he wanted to jump up and stop her, convince her to take the last of the cookies out to Aziraphale, but no matter how hard he tried everything felt muffled, distant, and unreachable. On the surface he was looking as calm and as calculated as ever.

“What would you like to do now, angel?”

She stuck her tongue out while she thought about all the activities available to them, choosing a number of tasks before then deciding that she didn’t actually want to do that and would change her mind in a moment.

“Painting!” she eventually landed on before running into her room to collect her art supplies. She returned with her arms bursting with as many paintbrushes, paints, pens, pencils, crayons, and sheets of paper as she could carry and dumped them ceremoniously on the floor. She grinned at her father, proud of the pile of stuff at her feet.

“Right,” Crowley muttered, nodding dumbly as he got up from the kitchen table to collect a glass of water for her soon-to-be dirty paintbrushes. He slowly sauntered over to where Rose was now laying out her supplies neatly on the floor and handed her the glass before leaning precariously against the back of the sofa.

“Why are you up there, daddy?” Rose asked as she began to mix her red and blue paint together to make the first messy brushstroke. “Come sit.”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m fine up here, Rosie. I don’t want to get in the way of your creativity, I’m good here,” he lied. He wasn’t quite sure why he lied or what he was lying for, but he was sure that he wasn’t being entirely honest.

Rose painted contentedly, humming to herself as she worked. To start off with she painted a bright purple, pink, and yellow butterfly that she named after Madame Tracey for her lovely coloured closet, then she carefully sketched a man with big silver wings behind him and short blond curls atop his head which–at least to a five year old’s standards–looked awfully like her father. After completing these two pieces she placed them outside to dry in the sunshine, weighing each of them down with a few rocks on the corners before returning to her work.

She then decided that she was going to draw a portrait of Crowley as well, who was (secretly) most honoured to have a painting of himself done, that is until Rose revealed the final product, turning it around to show a large black and red snake with instantly recognisable, bright yellow eyes, all coiled up. She giggled at his reaction, calling him silly for pulling a disapproving face and set the drawing aside to begin another.

Her hands, and many other parts of her, were now covered in paint as she pulled another sheet of paper out to begin another painting. Her Spidey-suit was looking less red and blue now and more pink and orange and silver and… the colours went on. This time starting with a dark blue that she smeared all over the top half of it until she accidentally missed the sheet and drew a thick, messy line onto the rug.

“Oh,” Rose muttered, almost inaudibly. “Uh, daddy I… I made a mess.”

_“It’sss only a bit of a paint, angel,”_ he hissed, cocking his head to watch her curiously. _“I think it lookssss rather nice. Do sssome more.”_

“But it’s wrong to make messes,” Rose hesitated. “It’s bad.”

_“Hmm, but messes like these can be cleaned up. Nothing wrong with a little, temporary stain, darling. Do some more and see how you feel.”_

“But…”

_“Go on,”_ Crowley urged, sensing the uncertainty in her voice. She chewed at her bottom lip and swiped at the rug, leaving another dark mark before looking to her father for his response. _“See? Nothing bad happened.”_

Rose giggled, taking her father’s encouragement and running with it. She grabbed fresh tubes of paint and squeezed a dollop of each selected colour onto her palette wheel, briefly glancing at Crowley to check that she was still in safe territory. His face was unreadable, his eyes thin and watching her every move.

It did not take long for Rose to move from smearing paint on the rug to painting the walls with a combination of brushwork and her hands. Her choice of colours were lovely, her choice of canvas less so. Crowley followed behind her through the cottage as she painted wall after wall, arms folded across his chest as he watched her attentively from afar.

“That was _fun_,” she beamed, letting her palette wheel and paintbrush clatter to the stone floor signifying that she was now done with this activity. She ran past him, crawled up onto the couch, and began jumping up and down, giggling as she bounced. “Come join me!”

Crowley was stood propped up against the wall, arms still crossed, and eyebrow raised as he watched her enjoying herself. “No. No, Rose, I’m perfectly happy just watching you have fun,” he smiled.

She beamed at him, laughing at her own giddy joy as she bounced about on the sofa, preparing to launch herself onto the other sofa. As she took her chance and leaped over, her arm caught the lamp on the end table and knocked it to the floor.

It shattered loudly.

Rose froze, not daring to raise her eyes to look at her father.

“Uh oh…” she eventually murmured when the silence had gone on for just a bit too long for either of their liking. Crowley just watched her, his face calculated and composed.

He could see the cogs turning in her mind, her eyes looking at him inquisitively as she tried to process why she wasn’t being shouted at or scolded in some way. She knew–just as Crowley and Aziraphale knew–that Crowley was the more lax of the two parents, that Aziraphale was the one to uphold the rules, especially when it came to mess and organisation. But even so, if they were at home and she had stolen all the cookies and painted all over the walls and broken a lamp Crowley would have reprimanded her in some way and looked at her with… disappointment? Anger? Mild amusement?

Yet here he was doing nothing; just giving her cold looks and carefully considered words. Inside, he was screaming, desperate to do _something_; to tell her off, to tell her that it was okay and just an accident, but he couldn’t do anything. He just felt like he was trapped underwater.

“Sorry, daddy,” she said quietly.

_“Whatever for, angel?”_ Crowley asked, his gaze unwavering.

“I…” she looked down at the broken lamp to double check that it had actually happened and she wasn’t just imagining all of this. But there it was, broken on the floor. “I broke the lamp.”

_“Oh, it’s just a lamp, don’t fret about it, angel,”_ he smiled, softly, slinking closer and sitting on the back of the unoccupied sofa. _“They’re only things. Things break. Things can be fixed.”_

A look of caution flashed across Rose’s features, as though, for just a moment, she didn’t quite recognise the man standing right in front of her. He took a deep breath and made a conscious effort to soften his gaze and offered a small smile.

Crowley picked up a glass from the coffee table and dropped it to the floor, letting it smash against the stones. He snapped his fingers and as suddenly as it had broken, it was now fixed and back on the coffee table where it had been moments before. _“See? Things break, angel. We can always fix things. Break something else.”_

Rose watched him uncertainly again before picking up an empty cocoa mug from this morning that Aziraphale had left on the end table and dropped it on the floor. She watched the china smash and shatter into a million pieces against the stone flooring and smiled up at him once it was done.

“It broke,” she noted.

_“It did,”_ he said slowly and nodded. _“Would you like to break anything else?”_

“Is it not wrong?” she asked hesitantly.

_“No, angel. Would I let you do something if it was wrong?”_

Aziraphale’s voice entered his mind at this question, his old adage of ‘_well, of course you would, you’re a demon’_ echoing round and round in his head. He knew this was wrong, knew that he shouldn’t be doing any of this.

He just wanted to bundle his daughter up in his arms and tell her that everything was okay and that she could do whatever she wanted as long as she was happy and safe but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything. It was like watching a car crash that you knew was unavoidable and had to watch it happen right before your very eyes, but you were the one driving the car.

A glint of mischief shone in her eyes as she resumed jumping on the sofa, this time with significantly less care for her surroundings, bumping into things as she bounded around the room with abandon.

Crowley settled onto the sofa, stretching his absurdly long limbs out in front of him as he watched her run around the room knocking things off shelves as she went, even taking to throwing a picture frame of the three of them at the wall at one point. She was just a red and blue (and whatever paint she had smeared on herself) blur running back and forth, jumping and destroying as she went. She soon ventured into the kitchen after the living room had lost its appeal and began throwing around the baking supplies that they had used earlier, chucking flour and eggs around the room without a care in the world.

After a little while she began to get tuckered out (apparently running around a room, leaping and bounding as you go, and breaking everything that you can get your little hands on takes up quite a bit of energy) and so she slumped down on the floor by Aziraphale’s reading nook where Crowley housed some of his more favoured plants.

She climbed up to sit on the window ledge; her legs crossed as she picked at the leaves of a plant Crowley had gifted Aziraphale when they had first come down here, a senecio angels wings plant that had never managed to upset or disappoint him (an extremely rare feat). Crowley shifted in his seat and watched her closely as she pulled leaf after leaf off the plant, ensuring to tear each leaf into other, smaller pieces before she moved onto another.

_“What are you doing, angel?”_ Crowley asked as he rose from the sofa and sauntered on over to her. He settled into Aziraphale’s reading chair and rested his chin in his hand, elbow balanced on the armrest as he watched her expectantly.

“Pruning,” she shrugged, as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

_“Well, you’re doing an excellent job of that,”_ he noted, nodding slowly as he took in the image of his daughter defacing one of his more sentimental possessions. Yet he still showed no reaction.

Watching her in this moment was fascinating for Crowley, or whatever was in control of his mind at this particular interval. Her moves were calculated, as though she had planned out the best way to get under her father’s skin and cause a reaction: destroy one of his prized plants, but it gained no reaction.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as she tore each luscious, silver leaf from its stem, waiting to see how many she could tear up and destroy before he inevitably exploded. But still it never came, even with half the leaves now scattered about the floor and windowsill. Rose was beginning to get worried.

“Is this okay?” she asked quietly, still not daring to look up into her father’s thin, and strangely unfamiliar yellow eyes.

_“Of course it is, angel. Plants grow back, they’re the most resilient of us all. Why would it not be alright?”_

“Because... because y-you got this for papa and he’ll be sad,” she mumbled, not sure of herself as she spoke.

_“Don’t you worry about papa being upset; he’ll understand. It’s just a little plant, I’m sure it won’t mind. If it didn’t want to be torn apart it wouldn’t have grown so terribly.”_

“But you said it was pretty yesterday,” she countered uncertainly. “Do you not care about it?”

_“Of course I do. But I care about you more and want _you _to have fun, angel. That means much more to me than some stupid plant,”_ Crowley smiled unnervingly, sending a shiver down Rose’s spine. But to her young brain, she wasn’t quite sure what that meant just yet.

She continued to pick at the leaves, tearing off smaller and smaller bits as Crowley watched her intently. She looked up at him after a while, maintaining eye contact as she slowly pushed the plant pot off the windowsill until it smashed on the ground, spilling wet soil all over the rug.

But still Crowley didn’t react. He just watched her, his head resting comfortably in his palm with his face entirely unreadable.

_“What’s wrong, angel?” _he asked, his voice low.

“It feels bad,” she mumbled.

Crowley leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, measuring up every move as he did it. “Why does it?”

“B-Because...” she began, stuck her tongue out as she fought to finalise her thoughts. “I don’t know. It just feels wrong, daddy.”

“Okay, then. What would you like to do?” he asked calmly, softening his features to reassure her that everything was alright.

Rose took a second to think, her tongue snaking back out of her mouth as it always did when she was lost in thought. He watched her eyes trail up to the ceiling in an attempt to draw some bright idea of an activity from the back of her mind.

“Can we read?” she asked, picking up the book Aziraphale had left on the end table last night, next to a spare pair of his reading glasses and an empty mug that had previously been full of cocoa.

“Of course, Rosie,” Crowley smiled, taking the book from her. “Do you want to read or shall I?”

“You!” she beamed, elated at her father, as she knew him, returning a little. His pupils were still thin little lines and he still held himself differently, but he was back to normal to an extent, she thought.

She climbed off the windowsill and clambered onto Crowley’s lap, getting herself comfortable before he started to read.

“The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn...” he began and continued to read to her as she settled quietly in his arms.

“I’m bored,” she sighed heavily, slumping on his lap as he finished the first chapter of the book. He closed it over and placed it on his lap as she continued to whine. “We’ve read this one before. It’s boring, daddy.”

_“Well, if it’s so boring… I think you should destroy it,”_ Crowley whispered quietly in her ear as he tapped the hardback cover with his fingertips.

“B-But… it’s papa’s favourite thing in the whole wide world.”

“_Hmm. I thought that was you though, angel. Can’t be a silly old book now, can it? Not with you in the world…”_ he paused, letting the words sink in before he continued._ “That is unless you’re right._”

“No,” she breathed, her eyes going wide as she considered any sliver of truth behind her father’s words. “No. Papa loves _me_ more than a silly old book!”

Rose furrowed her brow and pursed her lips as she grabbed the book off her father’s lap and opened it up. She looked at the first page, a personalised signature and message from Wilde himself to Aziraphale in the centre of it, and ran her hand over it as though she were apologising to the book before she set about destroying it.

_“Go on. Tear it to shreds,”_ Crowley whispered.

Rose slipped her fingers behind the front page and tore it from the spine swiftly before ripping it into as many pieces as she could. She slipped off Crowley’s lap and began to pace the room, tearing more and more pages out as she went.

Crowley watched closely as she threw page after page into the air, letting each sheet float down around her angelically and suddenly, without warning, Crowley felt awake and present. It was like he’d been drowning, about to pass out and disappear into the murky depths that lurked beneath but was abruptly pulled to the surface and allowed air once more.

He leapt up from his seat and darted across the room until he was kneeling in front of Rose, stopping her from moving any further.

“NO! No, Rosie, stop! Stop! What are you doing?! You–” he shouted, snatching the book from her hands and looking at the destroyed thing in his hands. His eyes returned to his daughter as she began to tear up, her bottom lip quivering as fat tears formed in her eyes and threatened to fall down her chubby cheeks.

Crowley dropped the book at his side and pulled Rose in for the tightest hug in the world, holding her head close to his chest as he stroked at her long, red hair to calm her down.

“Y-y-you s-said,” she choked out through broken sobs against his chest.

“Shh, I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here now. I’m so, so sorry, it’s all my fault. I… I shouldn’t have shouted at you, baby,” he whispered into her hair in between kisses he planted on the top of her head.

They stayed there for a few minutes, Crowley soothing her as best he could as he tried to survey just how much damage and destruction he had managed to cause in his mental absence. The room was a mess and a veritable danger zone for Rose. He needed to get her out of here so he could sort everything out before…

Aziraphale. _Shit_.

“It’s not your fault, angel. I…” Crowley took a shaky breath. “Come on, let’s grab some toys and go see papa.”

“B-But…” she stuttered, sniffling away her tears as she pulled her wet face away from her father’s chest. He dipped his head to look her in the eye as he gently wiped the tears from her face and tried to smile softly and lovingly, but he could feel himself shaking already. He just needed to keep a lid on things until she was out the cottage and away from him, that way she’d be safe. “I… I ruined everything.”

“No, no,” he sighed. “I love you, angel. You didn’t do anything wrong, and you have absolutely _nothing_ to apologise for. I… I made you do these bad things and I’m going to clean them all up. You just, you need to keep papa outside for me while I fix everything. Can you do that for me?”

Rose sniffled, messily wiping her nose on her sleeve as she furrowed her brow at him. “What do you mean?”

Crowley frowned. “How about we grab some toys for you and you go play with papa for a little while? Just long enough so I can tidy everything up.”

“Should I lie to him, daddy?” she asked, and in doing so confirmed all the fears currently running through Crowley’s mind. He physically cringed as his heart dropped out of his chest and his stomach became a bottomless pit of despair at the prospect of tempting her again.

“I–” he stammered, a stream of unintelligible sounds falling from his lips. Rose watched his eyes dart back and forth around the room as he tried to make some kind of sense of his thoughts.

“If,” she sniffled. “If he asks what happened. S-Should I lie?”

Crowley held her by the shoulders, rooting himself to the present moment as he tried to find it in him to breathe again. He took a shaky breath and kept his eyes on the ground as he whispered, “You need to, Rose. Just this once.”

“But lying is wrong.”

“I know,” he sighed, his shoulders slumping as he lost all will to fight. He just needed to get her out of the damn cottage and to Aziraphale, that was all. He just needed to buy some time to fix everything. “I _know_ that it’s wrong to lie, angel, but I’m gonna need you to do it just this once for me, okay? I promise you that I’ll tell papa everything later on, but we’re going to need to lie to him to keep him out of the cottage while I fix everything, alright?”

She looked sad as she processed what her father was asking her to do. It was wrong to lie, Rose had been taught that from a young age, but little white lies were okay sometimes, surely. Crowley watched her as she mentally processed everything, waiting on tenterhooks for her answer.

“Okay,” she whispered, barely loud enough to be heard.

Crowley let out a sigh of relief and thanked her. “It’s not your fault, Rose. I...” he trailed off, letting his words die on his tongue. “What do you want to take outside? Let’s grab some stuff.”

They settled on a plate of the remaining cookies that they dug out of her toy chest, Rose’s beloved copy of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_, and one of her dolls. Crowley carried her around the cottage as they collected everything to take outside, careful not to let her hurt herself and, in turn, somehow make himself feel even worse about the whole thing.

They rushed about, Crowley desperate to get her out of the cottage and to the safety of Aziraphale; he’d be able to look after her. He checked over Rose, making sure that all traces of her crying had faded and that she was okay before bursting out the backdoor to get her to safety and out of his presence.

Aziraphale looked like a vision of peace, Crowley thought as he stormed toward him. He probably looked like a wreck, if how he was feeling was any indication but that was the least of his problems right now–he just needed to fix all of this _alone_. Aziraphale was peacefully reading, his reading glasses propped perfectly on the end of his nose and his lips parted as he lost himself in the story (it was always Crowley’s first inkling on whether a book was good or not).

His skin was soft looking and ever so slightly tanned as he lay half-shielded by the grand apple tree that bordered their back garden with his beige trousers rolled up to the knee for ultimate Aziraphale relaxation. Crowley felt another pang of guilt hit him as he realised that he was about to ruin his angel’s perfect little bubble and invade it with chaos.

He stood over the lounging angel, blocking the rays of the sun that had covered half of his body. As Aziraphale turned to look at what had caused the sudden shade Crowley dumped Rose on his lap and placed the plate of cookies down next to them.

“Wha-?” Aziraphale started, arms thrown up in a questioning manner as if to silently ask Crowley, what on _earth_ is going on here? He was staring up at Crowley in astonishment and mild annoyance until he noted the unusual expression on his demon’s face – he had visibly flushed cheeks, wide eyes, and a thoroughly chewed bottom lip. Something was wrong.

“I just...” he faltered. “We made a mess baking. Just- keep her out here until I finish clearing everything up, alright? _Don’t _come in the house until I say so. I... fuck- shit- _bugger. Damn it!”_ Crowley swore, so worked up that every time he tried to pick a marginally better word for his daughter to hear he instead chose an equally terrible one.

Aziraphale stared at him, trying to decipher what was wrong to make Crowley visibly panic like this. He hadn’t seen him like this for years, or maybe ever.

“What happened?”

Crowley leaned down to kiss Rose on the top of her head and to peck Aziraphale to reassure them both that everything was fine and dandy and that he was good. “We just made a mess, don’t worry about it.”

Aziraphale was anything but calmed by Crowley’s words. However, before he could say anything, Crowley was disappearing back into the cottage, slamming and locking the door behind him loudly. Aziraphale turned to Rose who was happily sinking her teeth into a cookie while sat comfortably between his legs.

“Well, that was awfully strange,” Aziraphale muttered to himself. “What was all that about, my darling little cherub?”

“Mm,” she mumbled absentmindedly while shrugging. She swallowed her mouthful of chocolate chip cookie, before quickly replacing it with another bite.

Aziraphale watched her closely; something was undoubtedly wrong. But like with Crowley, he knew not to push his luck by asking too many questions too fast, and so relaxed knowing she would open up to him about whatever in god’s name had happened in there when she was ready.

“Cookie?” she asked, holding one out to him. Aziraphale smiled and instantly softened at the offer, taking the cookie gently from her hands and helping himself to a bite.

“My,” he gasped. “This is _awfully_ delicious, my dear.”

Rose giggled and relaxed in his lap.

As soon as Crowley had shut and locked the door he fell to the floor, his knees giving way under him as he fought the urge to scream and cry. He could barely piece together the last two hours, could barely remember what he had made his daughter do despite the overwhelming evidence around him that documented that perfectly.

He couldn’t believe he had done it. Barely felt it coming on, even. It had been, what, ten minutes prior that he had felt ever so slightly _different,_ let alone the horrible, gut wrenchingly familiar feeling of a temptation lurking in his chest. And to his daughter. His own daughter.

Crowley was ready to puke, throw up all the memories of the last two hours until she was safe from him. He wanted to run to the Bentley and drive off forever; that way Rose and Aziraphale would be safe from him, that way he could never tempt them to do anything he said ever again. But he couldn’t do that–couldn’t bring himself to leave and never see them again, he might just die from heartbreak that way.

Fat tears fell onto the ground and stained the stones in front of him as his hands snaked their way into his hair, pulling at the strands bunched in his fists. He could barely feel himself breathing as his chest tightened and the pit in his stomach grew wider and deeper by the second.

“Come on, come on, come _on_,” he muttered to himself through gritted teeth, trying to will every fibre in his being to pull himself together and begin to fix the vast amount of mess surrounding him.

He took one thing at a time–divide and conquer was the best way forward, after all–and after a few minutes he found himself able to get up off the floor to his feet, shaky as they were. Aziraphale would start getting more and more concerned and curious the longer he was denied access to the cottage and would eventually come bursting in, knowing him Crowley thought. That was the last thing Crowley needed right now so he needed to pull himself together and bloody well get on with it.

He stumbled forward; hand pressed against the cool wall to steady himself as he made his way through the cottage to the kitchen. As he waited by the sink for his bucket to fill with warm, soapy water he leaned against the countertop with his eyes screwed shut while he focused on his breathing. Once it was full, he got to work scrubbing the copious amount of paint that covered the floor and walls and that is how he now found himself in the middle of the living room on his hands and knees, sweating furiously and mumbling hateful things to himself under his breath.

“Stupid fucking demon,” he grumbled while scrubbing at a particularly stubborn patch of paint, as tears fell from his face and onto the floor. “Can’t even be trusted with- what does an angel even bloody see in you, huh?”

The stone flooring was relatively clean after a once over but the rug, smeared with dark blue streaks, was proving much more difficult. He knew for sure that it wouldn’t be washable. It had been handmade over seventy years ago by Aziraphale and how he had allowed Rose to deface it (temptation or not) he didn’t know. He couldn’t bear to think about how hurt and horrified his angel would begin to feel if he saw the state of the place, not just for the extent of the mess that made the living area of their cottage look somewhat reminiscent of the after-math of Soho after a night of bombings back in the war.

After scrubbing at the rug vigorously for ten minutes he sat back on his heels and wiped at his brow, exhausted. Crowley looked around at the devastation that surrounded him and the deathly, all too familiar, feeling of sickness and guilt filled him up once again. He sighed, rose to his feet and dejectedly shuffled across the room to collect the wastebasket to begin collecting up some of the broken materials that were littered across the floor.

He knew, in the back of his mind, that he could have just snapped his fingers and miracled everything back to the way it was by now but the thought of using anything supernatural currently made him want to curl into a ball forever. No. He had to do this the old-fashioned way. He had to use his hands to fix all of this, and quickly before Aziraphale got too agitated to wait any longer.

Crowley started with the kitchen, sweeping and mopping up the remnants of flour and eggs from the floor and cupboard doors until it was practically spotless in there. He worked as fast as he could, desperate to return the cottage back to its simplistic beauty, desperate to disappear and curl into a ball for eternity, desperate to just be alone. Moderately satisfied with his work, Crowley moved to the living room, bending over to collect up any particularly large piles of broken glass and porcelain shards whenever he came across them.

He paused by his bedroom door, crouching down to pick up a particular item that had been catching his eye as he cleaned. Crowley pushed a few pieces of glass aside as he picked up the shattered frame to inspect it closer.

The picture frame was one of the few they owned, at the cottage and at home. It had been an ironic purchase that Crowley only did to get under the angel’s skin at the time–or at least that’s what he had told himself–but he had grown to love it more and more as the years passed by. The edges of the frame itself resembled a heart in its design, but were so much more than that. It was made of a thick metal, with two large wings holding the small picture box in the centre creating the heart-shape effect with the outer edges of their wings.

It was perfect for the photograph they had chosen to fill it with; one of the three of them. In it, Crowley and Aziraphale hugged a younger Rose from either side, all of them free and unabashed. Crowley’s glasses were off and his eyes were glowing with joy similarly to how Aziraphale’s always managed to look–soft and loving. If you had never met the couple and their perfect little daughter you would be able to sense the pure love that emanated from the photograph; they had never looked happier in a captured form. Crowley could never quite remember at what specific date it was taken but he could remember the event as clear as day, could remember Aziraphale practically begging him to have their photograph taken by Anathema at a party they had hosted for some reason or another at the bookshop. It had taken Rose looking up at him with those big, blue, puppy-dog eyes and asking him sweetly if they could get their picture taken for him to finally give in. And he was so glad that he had.

When Crowley had initially bought the picture frame it was pure white but he wasn’t having any of that. Before gifting it to his angel he took to sneaking it into the local hobby store and meticulously painted one of the wings black to match his own–convincing anyone who asked what he was doing or who dared to ask that he leave that they had something dire to attend to in another aisle or that he was merely from head office and product testing for the good of the company. Aziraphale was quick to fill it with a prized photograph immediately after unwrapping it, one that he had taken with a polaroid camera of Crowley’s on a long, alcohol-fuelled evening. However, it was immediately replaced with its current holding the moment the photograph of the three of them had been taken.

As Crowley turned the frame over to look at the photograph the sharp, broken edge of the black wing caught his palm, slicing it open. He hissed at the sudden pain now shooting through his hand and dropped it, fracturing the glass even more.

“_Fuck,_” he hissed, balling his injured hand into a fist. Soon, blood was dripping from his hand onto the floor and picture frame, staining the white wing red and bloodying the photograph beneath. He scrambled to pick up the frame, freshly sprouted tears clouding his vision as he fumbled to get a hold of it. “Shitting_ bollocks._”

It was then that the gravity of the situation finally hit Crowley. Hit him like a tonne of bricks to the chest. He fell forward, knees crashing into the ground as he doubled over. His hands, gripping the picture frame so hard he thought he might break it in two, rose to his face, pressing the fractured glass to his forehead as he sobbed uncontrollably, his chest constricting with every shaky breath.

A low rumble of thunder from over the hills echoed through the cottage at such a resonance Crowley could feel it reverberating through his ribcage. He had never been a fan of storms, not since the first one in Eden all those years ago, and this one felt like a big one brewing after suddenly appearing out of thin air. It had been a lovely week until then, but this was springtime in the British countryside after all and nothing could be presumed about the weather.

He stayed there for a few minutes, unable to bring himself to move or to think anything another than a constant stream of hateful comments about himself that, at this point, seemed never ending.

There was a soft knock at the back door. “Crowley? Sweetheart, is everything alright?”

Aziraphale paused and sucked at his lips, hand pressed against the cool wood of the backdoor, debating whether to miracle it open and see all this mess for himself. Crowley’s silence raised multiple alarm bells in his mind. Every fibre in his being was telling him to burst through the door and check on him; not for Crowley’s benefit, of course, just to allow him to check that everything was in order and that a portal to one of their respective head offices hadn’t been opened in the middle of the living room or something equally bonkers.

“Crowley?”

Crowley sniffled, wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and cleared his throat. “Mm, yeah. I jusssst,” he looked at the devastation around him, then quickly squeezed his eyes shut as he took a big deep breath. “I’m almost done in here. Stay out there, Zira. Please.”

His voice sounded broken. More alarm bells.

“Crowley, let me in, dear. Rose and I would like to see you,” Aziraphale called, voice as soft and caring as always. “And there appears to be a storm rolling in.”

Rose was stood at his feet, holding Aziraphale’s free hand and her bright blue eyes full of hope looking up at him. “Daddy, ‘re you there?”

“I’m here, angel. I uh…” he rose to his feet and snapped his fingers, the picture frame hanging loosely in his spare hand. Everything around him instantly returned to where it had been prior to the destruction that had occurred and to its original state. “Two secs- I- just two secondsss, angel.”

Crowley quickly scanned the room to ensure that everything was back in place and that Aziraphale would be none the wiser once he came in–that is unless Rose had already spilled the beans on him. He wouldn’t blame her if she had, especially not with her anxious father looking over in that way he did that managed to make even the worst of demon’s buckle (he considered himself as being under this category, surprisingly enough).

At the sudden cleanliness of the cottage, Crowley let out a sigh of relief. A bit of the weight was lifted from his shoulders, but he still felt emptiness and guilt filling up his insides, welling up in the depths of his chest and gut until he felt like he might choke again.

Crowley looked down at the still broken and bloodied picture frame in his left hand and took a deep breath. Everything else was fixed but this; but _them_.

Another small tap at the door brought him out of his thoughts. “Anthony?”

Crowley gulped and snapped his fingers as clouds began to loom overhead.


	2. Through the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's disappeared and Aziraphale is desperate to find him. He wants to turn the cottage upside down to find him, and when he finally does not everything is quite right. But he still needs to tend to their daughter and make sure she's all alright after the ordeal of the day. Poor angel ;((

The sound of the lock snapping back into its unlocked place startled Aziraphale and Rose, who looked inquisitively at one another. They shrugged in unison. When the unlocking of the door wasn’t followed by Crowley opening said door Aziraphale pushed it open and stepped inside hesitantly with Rose trailing close behind.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called through the cottage, looking from side to side as they made their way through the hallway to the main area. While he was predominantly on the lookout for his husband, he was also keeping a close eye out for any lingering mess that, in true Crowley fashion, he will have missed in his hasty cleaning up. No answer. “Anthony?”

There was still no answer.

“Daddy?” Rose echoed, holding Aziraphale’s hand tight as she stayed close to her father, practically hugging his leg.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow as a small, concerned frown formed on his lips. He had been here a second ago, he was sure of it. Surely he didn’t imagine his husband calling back to him and ringing close to every alarm bell he housed in his anxious little mind. Rose had heard him too, and last time he had checked hallucinations of other people’s voices didn’t often take place in more than one person’s mind at the same time, although he might have been mistaken on that matter.

“Rose, how about you watch some television while I try to find daddy,” he offered, snapping his fingers to turn on the old television situated in the corner of the room.

Aziraphale did not know how good a picture humans had managed to achieve in the very first televisions in the 1950s, but had been rather impressed by the quality of the picture and sound when he finally purchased one from a lovely little charity shop two months after Crowley had moved in with him. Crowley, however, had neglected to mention the minor demonic miracle he had performed on its journey from the shop to the cottage so that he could access 2000 world-wide available channels and two world renowned streaming services, as well as creating HD quality images and surround-sound from non-existent speakers.

He made sure Rose was comfortably situated in front of the television set, sprawled out on her stomach on the floor and eyes transfixed on an episode of _Peppa Pig_. When he was certain that she was all settled he set out to search the cottage to find his missing demon. _How _you could lose a demon, he did not know, but of course–like most things in their lives–there was a first for everything.

Where would Crowley hide if he were feeling on edge, Aziraphale pondered, turning around on the spot to remind himself of all potential options.

He knew the demon was still close, could sense his presence, but his specific location was unknown to him. Aziraphale’s decided that his first move would be to inspect the greenhouse hidden at the far side of the cottage, hoping that Crowley’s nerves would be sensibly calmed by a spot of gardening. Sadly, he was not there.

Next, Aziraphale thought to check the apple tree. It was a rare occurrence but previously when under a mountain of stress, as Aziraphale could sense Crowley was, he would return to his true form of a snake and squirrel away in one of Aziraphale’s bookcases or in amongst his favourite foliage. But again, after much searching Crowley could not be found in the apple tree or in the surrounding greenery of their little home.

He sighed dejectedly as he re-entered the cottage, unsure of where Crowley could have gone. Rose turned briefly to look at him, flashing him a reassuring smile before returning her focus back to the television screen.

Aziraphale pursed his lips when her eyes were off him and looked about the room for any immediate clues as to what had happened here. Nothing at all jumped out at him at first.

While it was extremely low down on his list of potential places Crowley could be hidden, Aziraphale set about checking the pantry, hoping that he had just panicked and hidden in the first place he had seen which–equally as unlikely–had been the kitchen pantry. It also gave him a chance to sneak a few biscuits out of the tin without Rose begging for some and without Crowley reprimanding him for snacking on sweets with dinner ready so soon.

However, in the grand scheme of things, Crowley was unfortunately not in there. Aziraphale huffed and wiggled on the spot in frustration.

Room by room would be his way forward from here on in, he decided. Aziraphale slipped into Rose’s bedroom quietly, careful not to close the door behind him too loud so that his daughter’s attention was kept on the brightly coloured moving images on the television screen instead of on him.

“Crowley? Are you in here?” he whispered, nerves ringing on every syllable. “Please, if you are in here, my dear, I _need_ you to come out. Whatever has happened, I can fix it.”

Still no answer.

Aziraphale still took to checking every nook and cranny he could find in his daughter’s bedroom, desperate for Crowley to be right there whenever he checked a new spot, but he was not.

Aziraphale was getting increasingly more worried about his whereabouts and mental state. It was unlike Crowley to hide himself away when faced with a dilemma, in fact Aziraphale had only seen him do it on three other occasions in their existence–when the angel had denied his request for holy water back in St James’s Park all those years ago, when Freddie Mercury had tragically passed away, and when Rose had miraculously entered their lives and his immediate response was panic and to _RUN_.

Eventually, Aziraphale slipped out of his daughter’s bedroom (after giving it a once over to ensure that everything was where he had found it) and moved to his own bedroom, hoping beyond hope that Crowley was nothing more than curled up on their bed, surrounded by duvets and blankets and pillows, and just in need of a good warm cup of hot cocoa.

He could sense him in the cottage. He was _here_, Aziraphale was sure of it, but in their bedroom? He was not. Aziraphale sat down on the foot of the bed and fiddled with his waistcoat buttons nervously, unsure of what to do if he wasn’t able to locate him; what to do if by the time Rose was heading to bed he was still none the wiser… what would he tell her?

“Crowley…” he sighed, feeling more lost than he had in a long time. He raised a hand to loosen his bowtie only to pat the empty space between his unusually unbuttoned collar, forgetting for a moment that Crowley had all but demanded that he remove the bowtie and relax a little in his clothing choices for the day. He had eventually yielded and gone for a more casual look – removing his bowtie, unbuttoning his top button, and rolling his trousers up to just below the knee. Crowley had still groaned at the new and improved look but the slight smile that hovered on his lips when he laid eyes on the angel had said enough.

“For goodness sake, where are you?” Aziraphale grumbled to himself as he searched their bedroom from top to bottom, leaving no stone or blanket unturned.

Once he had completely upturned their room and miraculously returned it to its original state, he returned to the living room and collapsed down on the sofa heavily. Rose turned her head to look at him for half a moment before a loud _splat_ drew her attention away from him and back to the television screen. She giggled at whatever had just happened; Aziraphale was not watching due to both principle and having much worse matters weighing on his mind.

After an episode had finished and Rose had started a new one, Aziraphale was ready to get back up and return to hunting down Crowley. As he began to move, finding that he was much more comfortable and settled into the plush tartan fabric of the sofa that he had initially thought, he heard Rose mumble something.

“Pardon?” he asked, still fighting to get up.

“He’s in there, papa,” she mumbled again, this time with more clarity. Rose followed this statement by outstretching her arm and pointing in the direction of the spare room adjacent to his bedroom. Her eyes and attention remained focused on the screen, and Aziraphale wondered if he were to ask her about this moment hours later whether she would even be conscious of having done it.

Aziraphale, once free from the grips of the sofa, made his way over to the spare room, hovering by the door a moment. He pressed his ear and palms flat against the door and paused. He was in there. Aziraphale could sense him.

“Crowley?” he asked hesitantly as he reached for the doorknob only to find it locked. He jiggled the handle once or twice to ensure that the door was in fact locked and not just jammed due to age and lack of use, as it had been on numerous occasions before.

“Anthony, _please_,” Aziraphale pleaded, his voice soft and broken. “I know you’re in there.”

He waited with bated breath for some sign–_any _sign–that Crowley was behind the door and safe. There might have been something drastically wrong, sure, he thought, but everything was fixable, even the unfixable.

Crowley was, in fact, behind that door. He was pressed with his back to it, hands pressed to the sides of his face while digging his fingertips into his scalp. Tears streamed down his face as he silenced his sobs, desperate to tell Aziraphale that yes, he was here and everything was absolutely fine and that there was nothing to worry about, he was just being overdramatic and hiding in a dark room over nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was _everything_. And the longer he stayed in there then the longer he could go without letting Aziraphale and Rose in on this reality, and ultimately leave him.

“Crowley, my dear, we can fix whatever has gone wrong but I need you to talk to me,” the angel pleaded once more.

The doorknob moved, just barely a millimetre, but enough for Aziraphale to notice. His eyes lit up; Crowley was _alive._ That would be enough for now.

“I’m in here, angel,” his voice came soft through the door.

Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him at the sheer joy of hearing Crowley’s voice, as small and meek as it was. He collected himself, stood up straight and cleared his throat.

“Oh,” he sighed gently, unable to hide the glee from his voice. “May I inquire as to why?”

A small, half-hearted, and tired chuckle passed under the door from Crowley’s lips. “You may not.”

“Wha-” he cut himself off and shook the thought from his head. He softened his voice, “What happened, Crowley?”

“I, uh,” a stream of incoherent, broken sounds left his mouth. He cleared his throat. “I’d rather not talk about it, angel.”

“Well, do you plan on coming out of there any time soon?”

Crowley sighed and sniffled. “No. I... I can’t do that.”

“Why ever not?”

“I just _can’t_, Zira.”

“Then you’re going to have to tell me what happened to cause... well, to cause whatever this is, Crowley.”

“Aziraphale, I _can’t_,” he said with as much force as he could possibly muster, and then hopelessly whispered, “Fuck.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale huffed, straightened his waistcoat and stepped away from the door. He could have sworn he had heard Crowley groan as he did so, but his mind must have been playing tricks on him, he concluded. “Right. Well- well, I shall, uh, leave you alone and see how you are in a little while.”

As Aziraphale walked away Crowley slid down to curl into the foetal position and wrapped his preposterously long arms around his stomach, hugging himself close. He rolled his head to the side and pressed his forehead to the cold floor, aching to feel something other than pain and guilt and regret inside him.

His head was full of vile vitriol, the kind that Hastur and Ligur and Beelzebub would shout at him whenever something on Earth had gone wrong over his existence, and he couldn’t get them to stop.

_You’re worthless._

_How could an angel of Heaven ever love such a damaged, pathetic excuse for a demon there ever was? Can’t even do your job right. Even when you tempted your own daughter you couldn’t sense it._

_Pathetic. Worthless. Weak._

This went around and around in his head, and he wasn’t about to stop them. For the first time in a long time, Crowley felt that he deserved every word thrown at him by his own subconscious, that he deserved to wallow in his self-hatred until he was nothing more than a blubbering mess.

Aziraphale, though deeply worried about his husband, scurried away, determined to make himself sufficiently distracted until he allowed himself to check back in on Crowley. As he passed the window, a flash of lightning lit up the room as the heaven’s opened and large raindrops fell with force, bouncing off the ground as they hit the earth.

“Would you like some hot cocoa, my little firecracker?” he asked Rose, sure to put a smile on his face as he walked through the cottage toward the kitchen to avoid worrying her.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she replied, wiggling on the spot but still not taking her eyes off the screen in front of her.

Aziraphale smiled at her sweet innocence and set about making three mugs of hot cocoa, taking great care in each part of the process–the longer he took the longer he had until he had to think about Real Things again. This was supposed to be a nice, relaxing spring holiday, after all… despite the sudden onset of thunder, lightning, and rain.

He handed Rose hers, promising that he would be with her in just a moment, before slipping off to the door of the locked spare room. He gently tapped it with two knuckles.

“There’s a nice hot mug of cocoa out here for you with heaps of cream, some lovely little marshmallows, and a small tipple of my own devising,” he said softly, before setting the mug down carefully outside of the door. He did not wait for a response.

Aziraphale made his way into the living room and sat down next to Rose, carefully crossing his legs and making himself comfortable before taking the first sip of his cocoa. Rose had already lapped up all of the cream and marshmallows of hers, along with half of the cocoa itself, leaving a small ring of chocolate mess around her mouth. Aziraphale smiled at the sight before miracling up a clean handkerchief and gently wiping her face clean.

“Stop it, papa,” she giggled at the touch, trying (and failing) to swat his hand away.

“There. Now you look positively angelic,” Aziraphale smiled, thoroughly satisfied with his work.

Meanwhile, inside the spare room and shrouded in darkness, Crowley rolled onto his back and took a deep breath. He ran his forefinger along the sliver of light where the door didn’t quite meet the frame, blocking fragments of the light from view as his hand travelled from as high as he could reach to the floor, and back up again.

He sniffed, the blend of aromas hitting him suddenly. It was Aziraphale’s cologne with its familiar, homely hints of sandalwood and ink that hit him first, quickly followed by the scent of strong cocoa (with a dash of his favourite whiskey) along with cream and marshmallows. Then, finally, the smell of the storm hit him; the fresh soil now sodden by the sudden onset of rain and filling his nostrils with the sweet, calming smell of nature. He was desperate to open the door, take the offering, and go sit with Aziraphale and their daughter… but he couldn’t.

He just laid there, listening to the faint sound of the rain falling and thunder cracking, of the television and laughter from the two of them in the living room. He felt worlds apart, _light systems_ apart, even; as though he were hanging off the farthest end of Alpha Centauri, slipping further and further away from his loved ones with every intake of breath.

His mind was a whirling mess, determined to drag him into the darkest depths of his psyche, and he felt that he deserved every last bit of it. He tried to picture some of the good things he had seen and done and experienced over the last six millennia, but every time a bright thought popped into his head he felt as though he was falling all over again.

He felt the memory of the rush of the wind pulling at his hair, dragging his wings behind him until his shoulder blades screamed in agony; felt the storm whirling around him, lightning and thunder filling his ears until his head pounded; felt his grace leave him, the light slipping from his eyes and heart as he fell further and further; felt the sense of absence deep within him, like a part of him would forever be missing, a gaping hole in his chest where beauty once resided. The light faded further and further away.

Crowley hadn’t felt this way in over a century, and had, most certainly, never entertained the thoughts whenever they had threatened to pop up since he had professed his feelings to Aziraphale all those years ago. He had never felt this way around his angel before, instead feeling that darkness within him light up like lasting embers beginning to glow in the depths of a long put out fire, shining through the mountain of ashes. Now, he had no idea how to act with him near.

But then again, he had never tempted Aziraphale or Rose before, let alone without even realising until the deed was done. He felt his chest constrict as his thoughts clouded his vision again, and let himself get dragged back into the abyss as another crack of thunder boomed nearby.

“Is daddy okay?” Rose asked, playing with a loose thread on the edge of the rug she was sitting on.

A wave of panic washed over Aziraphale. Did he tell her the truth that _no, her father was most definitely _not _okay and that he had locked himself away in the spare room because of whatever happened in here while he was looking after you so if you would be so kind as to tell me what took place, I would be most grateful, my dear _or did he lie to her to keep her innocent, away from all his stress and worry.

“A-” he stuttered, still undecided. “No, dearest. He appears to be a little stressed right now due to whatever transpired between the two of you, so I would be most pleased if you told me exactly what happened.”

Rose looked up at him, eyebrows turned up in a conflict. “I can’t.”

“Why ever not?”

“I promised that I wouldn’t,” she said. Aziraphale furrowed his brow and cocked his head in confusion. “Daddy said if y-you asked me what happened then to lie... because he’d explain the whole things later. He promised he’d tell you later.”

“Tell me what later, Rose?”

“I...” her face went through a mixture of emotions; confusion, anger, sadness, and happiness all found a place on her features at some interval as she processed her thoughts. Then, with absolute conviction said, “No. I promised daddy not to.”

With that she turned her attention back to the loose black thread, determined to pull it free from the rug, and ignored her father’s further pleas for information. She had made a promise and given her word, and by some ethereal or occult power that was enough for her to stick to her guns.

The storm continued to worsen outside, robbing the day of any hint of light and sunshine; if you had no knowledge of the month you would have assumed it was mid-November as the cold set in and the rain continued to beat down on the cottage. Aziraphale flicked his wrist and turned the lights on, illuminating the two of them in a shroud of golden light.

Soon it was five o’clock and nearing on dinner time and still no sign of Crowley coming out of the spare room. The storm outside was still as strong as ever, showing no signs of dying down any time soon, the sky darkening by the minute. Aziraphale felt a pang of hunger, his body clock now more demanding than he would have liked, and moved to prepare something for the three of them. He was rarely allowed in the kitchen, with Crowley not allowing him a chance to ‘poison’ their child with his apparently ‘abysmal’ cooking skills and his general disapproval of the angel near flame.

Despite his admittedly terrible skills in the kitchen, there were three dishes that he could make with relative success–spaghetti bolognese with meatballs and homemade garlic bread, beef stew with dumplings, onion gravy, and creamy mashed potatoes, and sushi (which he was rather good at since it required no actual cooking, but Crowley was unfortunately not the biggest fan).

Aziraphale decided on beef stew for dinner, hoping that it would manage to remind Crowley of the first stew they had shared together back in 41AD in Ancient Rome. Neither had been in a particularly brilliant mood when they had entered the tavern separately, but after bumping into one another they had warmed up considerably. The stew had been hearty and soul-soothing, enough to cheer up both the angel and the demon after a truly horrible encounter on both of their parts. It had been the first time Aziraphale had seen something truly Good in Crowley, whom he had spotted earlier on the trip buying extra food and wine at the market stalls for a large group of orphaned children who wandered aimlessly about the city centre.

Rose helped him prepare dinner, assisting in picking the vegetables in the garden, then washing and cutting them while he got on with the more intricate and less child-friendly aspects of dinner such as preparing and cooking off the meat. Making the dumplings was a particular favourite of Aziraphale’s, who enjoyed getting his hands messy with the gloopy mess until it finally formed and created scrumptious little pockets of delight. Rose much preferred the mashing of potatoes, using the utensil to beat the living daylights out of the carbohydrates; she was young and small but my goodness could she show those potatoes who’s boss.

“Can I take a plate through to daddy?” Rose asked as they dished up their dinner into three bowls.

Aziraphale hesitated. “I’m not sure whether he is particularly hungry right now, dearest. Maybe we can ask him after we’ve had ours.”

“But,” Rose frowned. “He might listen to me. Can I at least try?”

Again, he hesitated, chewing on his bottom lip as he weighed up his options. “I think that’s a _splendid_ idea, Rose.”

She beamed and slid off her chair to the floor. He passed her Crowley’s plate and followed her to the door, anxious for whatever was about to transpire. Aziraphale hung back a few metres, afraid to interrupt their moment, hoping beyond hope that Crowley would snap out of whatever this was and come out to them at the sound of his daughter’s voice and the offering of one of his favourite meals. The strong winds whistled loudly around the cottage, as if they were threatening to break the door down.

Rose knocked on the door gently and straightened up, holding the plate in both hands ready to proudly present it to her father when he opened the door. “Daddy? I haves some dinner for you.”

Aziraphale noticed that his hot cocoa had been left untouched where he had left it and his heart sunk in anticipation.

“Ah,” Crowley grumbled, his voice low and husky. “Rose, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“We made your favourite!” she offered, smiling eagerly at the closed door, just in case–by some miracle–he opened it. “It... it’s beef stew with dumplings and-and papa’s gravy and mash ‘tatoes.”

Still the door remained closed.

Unbeknownst to Aziraphale and Rose, Crowley was on his knees, head pressed against the door and silently praying for the will to open it and let them in. His eyes were tightly shut as he tried to find some semblance of will power within him, but there was none in him to be found then.

“That sounds delicious, angel, but I can’t come out there. I’m sorry,” he choked out, mentally punching himself in the gut for being so stupid and weak.

“But we made it for you...” she mumbled, her smile faltering. She stamped her foot and frowned. “No. You need to come out here _now, _daddy. It’s your favouritest meal and I want you to come out so me and papa can cheer you up. Come out!”

“Okay! Alright,” Aziraphale interjected, scurrying forward and taking the plate from Rose’s hands. He placed it on the ground next to the now miraculously fresh cocoa. “Let’s just leave it here for him, shall we? Maybe daddy will come out and eat it when he’s feeling more peckish a little later on, hmm? Let’s go eat ours. Come on,” he guided her to turn around and head back in the direction of the kitchen to eat their dinner. “It smells positively _divine_, Rose. You did such a spiffing job on the vegetables.” Aziraphale stole one last look at the door as they walked away.

As they tucked into their dinner, Aziraphale making a point to compliment Rose on her skills and overall contribution to the meal, he thought over her last interaction with Crowley. It was clear to him that whatever had happened in here was more severe and troublesome than he had initially thought, but he could not pry any further.

It was extremely out of character for Rose to lose her temper to any extent, let alone to shout at Crowley over something so minute. Aziraphale came to the conclusion that while he still had very little idea what precisely had happened in here, he was certain that it had something to do with the two of them–perhaps a rift of sorts between them.

“Rose, is everything alright with you and daddy?” he asked as he stabbed another lump of meat with his fork, making a point to not look up at her and scare her answers away.

“Yes,” she replied contentedly. “Why?”

“Well, you see- ah, the way you behaved back there was- well, it was most unlike you. You are not one to raise your voice in anger, let alone at either of us.”

“He was being silly again.”

“Silly how?”

Rose took a moment. “I like stew,” she smiled, shovelling another forkful into her mouth and wiggling on the spot with glee.

Aziraphale cocked his head at her; she was more like him than he would have liked her to be, much rather wanting to discuss the foods they liked than the actual serious conversation at hand. It was rather infuriating to see her use the very avoidance tactics that he had often used himself over the last six millennia; Crowley had repeatedly chastised him for it in the past and now, faced with his daughter, he finally understood why the demon had always gotten so angry with him when he did so.

In spite of Aziraphale’s cooking skills, dinner was delicious. Crowley would have agreed so if he weren’t crying silently to himself in the spare room, unable to bring himself to open the door to collect the cocoa and stew lovingly left for him. He didn’t deserve this kindness or unrestrained love being thrown his way through small and simple acts–Aziraphale was best at the smallest gestures going the longest of ways.

Crowley had never felt really _hungry _before, not like Aziraphale did. The angel would get stomach rumbles when he had gone too long without something sweet in his system, the demon, however, could go great lengths of time without eating. But here and now, he felt starved. He pressed his hands flat against the door, head hanging low between his shoulders as he hopelessly tried to bring himself to leave the room but still, he couldn’t do it.

“_Fuck_,” he sobbed in a breathless voice. He balled his hands into fists, desperate to punch something, but realisation dawned on him; anything he hit would make noise and alert Aziraphale even further. He resisted, shaking his head until the thought no longer lingered there, and finally took a deep breath.

After dinner Aziraphale and Rose helped themselves to a small portion of angel cake they had brought with them from their favourite London bakery. It tasted just as divine as always.

Before washing up the dirty plates after dinner, Aziraphale collected up the empty mugs he had left around the cottage throughout the day–he had left two in the living room, one next to his reading chair and another next to the sofa. Crowley would often joke that he would always know where Aziraphale was in the house, and where he had been, since there would forever be a trail of empty mugs he had left in his wake.

As he collected his mug from his reading nook something caught his eye. He paused. There was something not quite right here... and then it dawned on him–his prized copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray _was in the wrong place. Not by much, but it absolutely was not where he had left it this morning. A flash of lightning lit up the room.

Aziraphale gingerly brushed the hardback cover with his fingertips, running his fingers over the spine. Ah. The smell of cloves and freshly turned earth wafted up, filling his senses. In most other situations he would have sighed in relief at the familiar scent of Crowley, but he knew what this meant.

He flipped the front cover over to inspect the inside. Everything was intact precisely as it should be, but not by hand–by miracle, or rather by demonic intervention. He slid his forefinger down the length of the first page where the old, oddly discoloured paper met the spine and pursed his lips. His book had been torn apart...

Aziraphale felt positively sick to his stomach. What on earth could have happened in here for one of his most prized possessions to be torn apart and hurriedly repaired with a click of his husband’s fingers without a care for the proper way to do things. Crowley knew to never even _think_ about miracling the repair of a book, knew that it was an arduous process that took time and care and deft, perfectly manicured fingers (this last note was not exactly a _requirement_ but it was something that Aziraphale (and Crowley, although he would never admit it) took great pride in).

“Rose, did you and daddy read my book earlier?” he asked as he flipped the pages back over to their neutral state. The spine creaked, as it often did, as he carefully swung the cover back over to protect the more fragile pages of wonder inside.

Aziraphale elected to keep his back to her, giving her ample time to think about her answer before she spoke.

“We did,” she finally replied meekly, tears in her eyes threatening to fall. Then, in barely a whisper, “I promised.”

Aziraphale spun around to inspect the main living space once again, this time with a new eye and a vague idea of what he was looking for. He scanned the room for anything ever so slightly out of place, something that was missing, or askew, or even broken. Rose watched him quizzically.

“What’re you doing?” she asked, head cocked to the side as she followed her father’s eyes as they darted about the room. Aziraphale ignored her, too focussed on the matter at hand to even hear her speak. “Papa?”

Things suddenly began to jump out at him; a plant pot was askew, unusually turned away from the light, the sofa had been moved an inch or two to the left, the rug closest to the kitchen smelled faintly of soap, and... the picture frame was missing. A flash of lightning struck close to the cottage, quickly followed by a loud and long roll of thunder.

Aziraphale threw the empty mugs aside into the plushness of his reading chair and ran to the door of the spare room, Rose following behind him cautiously and at a distance. She nervously fumbled with the velcro at her wrist, scared that she would be found out by her father and told off for creating such a mess and going along with so much destruction.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was hurried and desperate as he knocked. “Crowley, open the door. I need to see you.”

“I _can’t_, angel,” Crowley croaked.

“Anthony, _please_. Either tell me what happened here or open this door. I promise I won’t be mad. I just need to know and to see that you are alright, my dear,” he paused, taking a few deep breaths to calm him and his voice down. “Where is the photo frame, Crowley?”

“Mm,” Crowley groaned. “It’s in here with me.”

“Why?” Aziraphale felt as though he was trying to get blood from a stone.

“I broke it. I...” he breathed. “It’ssss broken.”

“What happened, Crowley?” he tried again.

“I can’t tell you.” Crowley shook his head in resolve.

“Then you need to open this door so I can check that you are okay, Crowley.”

“I _can’t_, angel. For hell’s sake,” he whined, forehead pressed against the door and eyes screwed shut.

“Why ever not?”

“It’s not _safe_.”

“What on earth do you mean ‘not safe’?” Aziraphale could feel his voice rising in panic and fear again, and he was unable to stop it. “Come out here. _Now_, Crowley. I mean it.”

“Angel, _please,_” he pleaded, begging for mercy.

Aziraphale turned on his heel in astonishment, coming face to face with Rose. Oh, he thought, how much had she heard? The pained look in her bright blue eyes told him all he needed to know; she had heard everything. But maybe this could be used to his advantage. Perhaps her witnessing just how distraught her father was would push her to finally tell him what had happened, but was that really worth it?

“Okay, I- apologies, my dear. I lost my temper for a moment. I am merely _worried_ for you,” he addressed to Crowley through the door. He knelt down so that he was at eye level with his daughter. “Rose, I promise that I will not get mad at you but I need to know why daddy has decided to lock himself away in the other room. Anything you can tell me about what happened- it will be okay. I promise you.”

Aziraphale opened his arms for her, and Rose willingly stepped forward and embraced him, burying her head in his chest. She began to shake, small sobs escaping her throat as she stood there wrapped up in her father’s arms, but the fear and sadness was still there no matter how safe she felt with him near. The rain pounded against the windows, making a small _dink_ sound whenever it collided; it was comforting, in a way–a neutral sound to break the tension.

“It’s okay, angel. I’m here,” he soothed, kissing the top of her head and rubbing circles on her back with his fingers to calm her down.

It was an odd scene. Crowley with his forehead and hands pressed flush against the door as he willed himself to move just a few inches forward, through the door and to Aziraphale and Rose who were in a tight embrace just on the other side of it. Rose was crying softly in his arms and it was all Crowley’s fault. A pang of guilt hit him smack in the chest.

“Is daddy okay?”

“I don’t know, angel. He won’t tell me what the matter is,” Aziraphale replied softly. “Rose, whatever happened earlier on, I- I won’t be mad. You’ll be helping me help daddy. We won’t be upset with you.”

Aziraphale felt marginally guilty for putting words in Crowley’s mouth but if he had come out of there already then he would not have had to resort to such measures.

“He...” Rose started, trailing off in uncertainty. “We were playing and baking and then, daddy said I should keep a–”

Crowley cut her off. “I tempted her, Aziraphale.”

No-one said a word.

Even the birds in the trees and the strong winds of the storm seemed too scared to make any noise, too scared to break the tension in the cottage. It was as if the world had taken a vow of silence. That is, until Crowley spoke again.

“I tempted her t-to not share the cookies and to trash the place and draw all over the floor and wallssss,” his voice broke and his lips turned to a snarl as he forced the confession past his lips. “I didn’t even know I was doing it. I just woke up and panicked, angel. I...” he took a shaky breath. “_Fuck_. I can’t be around either of you. If I can’t even tell when I’m doing it, it’s not safe. I’m not leaving here.”

“Crowley, I–”

“Rosie, what did I tell you before we went outside?”

She sniffled, wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her hand as she pulled away from Aziraphale and stepped closer to the door. “Th-that i-it wasn’t m-my f-fault,” she stuttered, hiccupping and sniffling uncontrollably as she tried to stop crying.

“Exactly, angel. I’m,” he paused. “I’m ssso sssorry for making you upset and making you lie to papa. Alright? That wasn’t good of me. None of this is your fault. Can you do me a favour though, sweetheart?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded.

“Give papa a massive hug for me and tell him to stop worrying about little old me. Can you do that?”

He was answered by the sound of Aziraphale falling to the side from the sheer force of Rose’s hug and her repeating his message almost word-for-word.

“Can you come out now?” she asked, the smile returning to her voice.

“N-No, angel...” he admitted. He could feel her puppy dog eyes staring at him through the door, boring a hole into his skull. “It’s not safe.”

They went round and round in circles, both begging and demanding that Crowley open the door and join them, that it was all okay, and that he was not to blame for any of this.

Aziraphale had been internally short-circuiting ever since Crowley had informed him of what he had done. Never in his wildest nightmares would he have ever considered the idea that Crowley had managed to tempt their daughter into destroying the house, his beloved photo frame and book included.

He had never distrusted them together, had never particularly distrusted Crowley in any sense of the word throughout his existence really, but now... he felt uneasy. And this uneasiness made him feel suddenly physically ill from the guilt now welling up in the back of his throat and the pit of his stomach. Their own daughter. And he had no idea.

After much internal deliberation Aziraphale left the two of them to talk while he disappeared to tidy up, wash the dishes, and put everything back just the way it was. He felt ashamed when he caught himself questioning whether to leave them alone to patch things up, or not.

She was Crowley’s daughter for goodness sake, just as much as she was Aziraphale’s–granted she had _come_ from Aziraphale in the basest sense of him creating her but she possessed just as many qualities of him as she did Crowley. Her long, gangly limbs with legs that went up to her armpits resembled his, her bright red hair, her wicked sense of humour, her care for plant-life and her attention to detail to name but a few. To question his ability to look after her, even for a second, made Aziraphale feel awful.

After tidying up the cottage to an acceptable standard, Aziraphale joined them again and stole Rose away for a bath before getting ready for bed. Bath time was typically Crowley’s wheelhouse when it came to their day-to-day responsibilities, therefore it took Aziraphale and Rose a little while longer than usual–even getting to a point where he considered performing a minor miracle for it to all be done with, but he persevered.

Rose was allowed to decide what pyjamas to wear to bed this evening after such a peculiar day–a small treat. She settled on a purple baggy nightie with a long-sleeved black t-shirt that she insisted on wearing over the top of, and added hot-pink fluffy bed socks pulled up to her knees (which were quickly and repeatedly and defiantly falling back down to her ankles).

“Come on, let’s get you into bed, dearest,” Aziraphale smiled sweetly as he tried to herd her into her room.

Rose was staring up at the bookcase, scanning each shelf for the book she desired. Finally, she found it and slipped it off the third shelf from the floor–which she could just about reach.

“Ah, a classic,” commented Aziraphale as he peered at the cover.

“Daddy said we could read it tonight!” she grinned, before turning around to head to the spare room. Aziraphale’s heart dropped as he ran after her. “Daddy, it’s bedtime! Come read to me.”

“I- uh- oh, angel. I-I can’t tonight.”

“But... you said that we would read Jekyll and Hyde tonight.”

“I know I did. But then this happened and I just- ah, I-I can’t.”

“But you promised, daddy,” she said sadly.

“I know,” Crowley sighed, his face and shoulder pressed up against the door now, his back half turned to the room. “How about I read you some here?”

“Y-you can’t you don’t have the book.”

“I can still read it to you.”

Rose considered this for a moment. “No. Come to bed. I want to read in bed!”

“Rosie,” he breathed, his voice shattering into a million pieces at her anger and frustration. The worst thing was, he didn’t even blame her; he, too, would be pissed if someone had promised him something important and then found themselves locked away in another room when the time came around. “I’m not doing this to hurt you. Come on.”

“No, daddy! Come out here and read to me. A promise is a promise and you don’t break promises, ’specially to me and papa.”

He began despite her protestations. “_Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty, and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow loveable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste…”_

“No! I want you to read with me in bed, daddy. You promised me that we’d read in bed tonight,” she whined, stamping her foot and stopping Crowley’s narrative. He turned around, onto his knees once again with forehead pressed against the door to feel closer to her–close enough to sense her.

“I’m sorry, Rosie. I can’t. Not tonight.”

“No! You promised!”

“Rose, I–” Aziraphale interjected.

“No!” she screamed.

“Angel, don’t. Jus–”

“I hate you! Just stay in there forever!” she screamed suddenly, throwing the book at the base of the door with as much force as she could muster and running off to her room. The loud _bang_ of her bedroom door slamming shut echoed through the cottage.

“I-” Aziraphale stuttered, stood dumbly between the two of them.

“Ro–” his voice died in his throat, unable to find the fight in him to argue, or to scold her actions. She was right. He had promised that they would read together in bed tonight, to read one of her favourite books… but here he was, locked in the spare room and surrounded by his own demons. Crowley sighed heavily and shook his head.

“I- uh-” Aziraphale stammered, still stood dumbly in the hallway. “Crowley, I–”

“Go,” Crowley choked out, cutting him off.

“B-But-”

“_Go_, angel. She needs you,” he insisted. “I’m fine. Just- go look after her.”

Aziraphale hovered on the spot for a moment, torn between his two choices. Crowley clearly needed him right now, but he could not ignore the sudden outburst that their daughter had just displayed. He picked up the book and left.

“I… o-okay,” and with that Aziraphale slipped off and quietly closed Rose’s bedroom door behind him. She was balled up in bed, blankets wrapped around her shielding her body from him beneath a veritable mountain of comfort.

The book read to her the night previous was now also thrown aside in a fit of anger, left open and upturned on the floor carelessly. Aziraphale collected it up, flattening the pages back down as he closed the cover over and sat on the edge of the bed. He ran a palm along the mountain of blankets, feeling for where Rose resided beneath.

“Rose?”

“Go away,” she retorted angrily, shifting away.

“I am not going anywhere, angel,” he soothed. “It’s okay. I’m not mad at you.”

Rose shifted around until she was sat up and looking at her father with a quizzical expression plastered on her face.

“You’re not?”

“No,” he shook his head softly, and shot her a reassuring smile. “I understand how you must be feeling. You have had,” he paused. “A _very_ long day. I am so _utterly_ sorry for what happened earlier, but that really is _no_ excuse to shout at anyone, particularly your father. He… he is trying his best.”

“But he promised.”

Aziraphale sighed and shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “I know,” he began. Rose threw the blankets off her shoulders and clambered over to the angel, wrapping her arms around his neck as she situated herself in his lap. Aziraphale was momentarily stunned, waiting a moment for her to settle before he dared move; terrified to scare her away like a baby deer caught grazing unawares.

“Unfortunately, angel...” he took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, people cannot always keep their promises–even those that we love. Your father and I both love you so very much. He doesn’t want to upset you but we can’t make him leave that room any more than we can make the stars fall to earth.”

“Daddy used to do that,” she mumbled into his chest.

Aziraphale smiled gently. “He did–back when he was an angel.”

“He maded star systems and the universe before he Fell.”

“He did, yes,” Aziraphale nodded slowly. “He helped craft the heavens above, helped to create the stars and the planets. I believe that Betelgeuse was one of his, and that funny little planet with all the funny colours and that eye looking thing, ah-”

“Jupiter?” Rose offered.

“Yes,” he sighed, grateful. “Thank you, my little cherub. He helped carve that wonderfully beautiful rock out of nothing, crafted it with his bare hands. But I believe that he has a soft spot for Mercury although he did not have a hand in making her,” Zira smiled, kissing the top of her head. “But as much as he loves the stars, he could never love _any _of his creations more than he loves you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” he echoed before straightening up as if suddenly awake. “Now. How about you and I have a little read together before you go to bed?”

“I don’t want to read that book now,” Rose complained, a defined frown forming on her lips as she began to sulk.

“Let’s select another then,” Aziraphale chimed, refusing to be beaten. “What would you like for us to read?”

After settling on the complete collection of stories and poems of Winnie the Pooh, Aziraphale miracled the book into his hands. He tucked Rose in, ensuring that she was perfectly comfortable before he settled in beside her on top of the covers and began to read. The angel was not one to brag particularly but he was awfully good at the voices whenever he read to Rose–who delighted in the many characters he would create.

She did not last long, dozing off after two short stories. Her head had fallen gently onto his shoulder as she drifted off to sleep and Aziraphale smiled at the sweet innocence in her face now that she was no longer plagued by the events of the day. He closed the book quietly and slipped off the bed.

“And when you wake up you will have dreamt of whatever you like best,” he whispered before gently kissing her on the forehead.

Aziraphale looked back one more time before closing the door behind him, to confirm to himself that she was, in fact, fast asleep and actually okay after such an ordeal. As the door clicked shut, he sighed, a weight slipping back onto his shoulders like a familiar, old jumper now that he had Crowley to deal with for the remainder of the evening.

Another roll of thunder boomed close by and the wind howled once more. Aziraphale looked up at the ceiling as the gales whistled down the chimney and threatened to slip through the ancient brickwork once more, but the old cottage was much stronger than it looked. He elected to take a moment for himself now that he was alone once again, and made himself a hot cocoa, taking as long as he could with each step of the process.

As Aziraphale’s foot passed the entrance to their bedroom on his travels back to the locked room, Crowley piped up: “How was she?”

“Ah, she was fine. We read a little and she soon dozed off- c-clearly just exhausted after such a long day in the sunshine,” Aziraphale laughed nervously as he sat on the floor, settling down comfortably with his back pressed to the door. The lighting was dim, now that the sun had long set, with the few lights turned on inside the cottage emitting a soft yellow glow that encircled Aziraphale wherever he went.

Crowley was still inside the locked room, back pressed to the door and head rolled back to look at the ceiling for some divine intervention to get him out of there, but none was coming. He could not bring himself to turn on the light and see the extent of his self-hatred, and more importantly see the shattered, bloodied picture frame to his left. His hand was throbbing now, his palm most likely stained with dried blood but it was too dark for him to check.

Aziraphale gazed out of the window to his right and watched the raindrops pound hard against the glass before they hastily raced one another down to the windowsill. Another flash of lightning filled the hallway, striking the ground a field over, and was shortly followed by a loud crack of thunder.

“It’s getting awfully bad out there,” Aziraphale mused, taking a sip of his cocoa.

“Yeah, I uh- that might have been me, angel.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, as if hoping to look incredulously through the door at his husband but his powers did not extend to seeing through solid objects unfortunately. Crowley seemed to take the angel’s silence as a bid for him to explain further, but instead he took a moment to just relish in being close to him.

“I was not aware that your supernatural powers extended to weather control,” he remarked.

Crowley huffed, the hint of a smile on his lips. But a thought suddenly sprang to mind, wiping all happiness from him yet again. “It’s a wonder what I can do without even realising, angel. For instance, tempting our daughter…” his voice got weaker with each word as tears threatened to fall once more. He finally choked out, “Sssssurprise even myself sometimes, truth be told.”

“Oh, Crowley, I-”

“_Don’t_,” the demon cut in, his voice forceful and venomous. “Do not try to make me feel better about this, angel. I- what I did is unforgivable, so don’t.”

“Well, seeing as both your daughter and I have already forgiven you, I would say that the matter is most certainly forgivable, my dear.”

“How?” Crowley demanded. “Aziraphale, I _tempted_ her. And the worst thing is, I wasn’t even _conscious_ of it until she broke…” he trailed off and cleared his throat. “I have prided myself on my self-control for the past six millennia. But apparently I can’t stop myself from tempting my own bloody daughter and not even–”

“You are a _wonderful_ father, Crowley. I know that you would rather suffer the mercies of Hell than hurt her. Stop it,” Aziraphale cut in.

Silence descended between the two of them as they sat with just a door separating them but they felt worlds apart. Aziraphale continued to watch as the storm raged outside, transfixed on how each gust of wind, each raindrop, each crack of thunder, and flash of lightning made him feel at his core. He could feel the anger and desperation out there, swirling around them. Aziraphale decided that he was not concerned whether or not Crowley had created this storm, he could feel the cataclysmic medley of emotions swelling inside his husband’s chest and knew, deep down, that he had some part to play in this dire weather.

“How did you know the opening to Stevenson’s book?” Aziraphale eventually asked, not taking his eyes off the window; finding it oddly soothing to watch Crowley’s accidental work.

“I, uh-” Crowley stammered. “Miracled it up in here, of course.”

“Would you like to try that again, dearest? Perhaps with the truth this time.”

“I know it cover to cover, to be perfectly honest with you, angel.” Crowley could hear the breath hitch in Aziraphale’s throat from here at the shocking revelation, shortly followed by a stream of unintelligible sounds falling past his lips as he desperately tried to comprehend what was happening. “Also memorised a few others. For Rose’s sake, _of course_. Don’t take any of this the wrong way; I still don’t like reading, angel. I only do it for her.”

“Of course, Anthony,” Aziraphale sighed contentedly. “I believe you.”

“Cheers,” Crowley snorted back sarcastically, rubbing at his aching temples.

“So, you have memorised books and managed to keep this delightful secret from me for how long?”

“Uh- um, a few years, give or take,” Crowley shook his head dismissively and curled his upper lip just like he always did when he found himself lying to Aziraphale. “I read Frankenstein a lot after you said you liked it that one time.”

“Crowley, I’m fairly certain that I said that in 1834.”

“Oh.” He paused, taking a moment to fully digest the fact that he had, in fact, shot himself directly in the foot. “Ngk. Well, then.”

Aziraphale could feel himself going red, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson and for a second he was quite glad that Crowley was currently unable to see him; knowing full well that he would be ridiculed for his flushed appearance.

Crowley tossed about a thought for a moment. He inhaled deep, in a desperate bid to relieve some of the tension accumulating in his chest before he began to recite. “Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even they clemency and affection, is most due. Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, who thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a friend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.”

Aziraphale sat speechless on the other side of the door, tears springing to his eyes and threatening to fall at his astonishment. “_Crowley,_” he eventually sighed out, his voice full of love and adoration.

“I always liked that bit. I wrote to Shelley under a pseudonym afterwards, bit like those secret ones you used to read to me in the bookshop; she was quite lovely about the whole thing, really. Her husband was a bit of an arsehole though, truth be told.”

“Yes, he was,” Aziraphale nodded. “_Awfully_ pretentious after the whole Oxford debacle.”

“_Oh_, tell me about it. He was insufferable. But nowhere _near_ as bad as that Bryon bloke, for hell’s sake. He made me think Shakespeare was actually fairly competent for a short while.”

“Oh, Heavens.” Aziraphale uttered in shock. He furrowed his brow. “Hang on, didn’t you have a… a _thing_ with Bryon for a while? I distinctly remember seeing you and him walking into a brothel in Greece, both of you extremely drunk.”

“Yes,” Crowley offered, the word slowly passing his lips. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he was batshit crazy, angel. I mean, it was difficult to keep up some days and I’m a _demon_. Fun bloke at times, though.”

“Pity he had to die at such a young age. He rather had a talent for a short while there.”

“Mm,” Crowley contemplated. “I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did with the lifestyle he insisted on living, to be honest. Pretty sure he was more demonic than me on a good day. Did you know he had a coffin in his dining room and regularly tried to buy skeletons?”

“Oh, for heaven’s… _whatever for_?”

Crowley shrugged. And then realised that Aziraphale could not actually _see_ him do this, so quickly scrambled for a verbal response to replace it–after mumbling a handful of incoherent sounds as he figured out what to say. “No idea. Don’t think my presence did much good for his ol’ obsession with mortality and all that. Y’know, literal demon walking around and lying in your bed… probably does something to mortals after a while.”

It went quiet. Crowley scratched at the rough edge of the broken picture frame, smoothing it down as he took a deep, shuddering breath; his chest threatening to constrict again and let out more uncontrollable sobs.

Maybe it hadn’t been the best course of action to mention one of his ex’s and discuss him at length at a time like this, especially when Aziraphale was already strung out and worried about him. Last time Crowley had checked talking about an ex-boyfriend was not exactly the go to topic to discuss when locked in another room and refusing to come out. He could feel himself beginning to spiral again.

“Kind. Caring. Loving. _Nice_. Someone that I could not live without,” Aziraphale listed. Crowley got more and more confused as the list went on. He turned his head to look at the door, an eyebrow raised in suspicion as he blinked hard, trying desperately to make some sense of what was happening. He hadn’t been aware that Aziraphale had been so enamoured with Bryon. Aziraphale continued, “And believe me I have tried on many occasions. A fantastic father despite being utterly petrified at the beginning, one that has shown me on _numerous_ occasions that he is so much more than a demon. He does acts with the sole purpose of putting a smile on her face and mine, with the only motivation being his _kindness_. He–”

Crowley cut in. “What are you doing, angel?”

“I am listing the good I see in you, my dear. Or, at the very least, the good that I can _remember_ off the top of my head,” he smiled happily. “While existing for six thousand years has its benefits, it does not make the act of recalling all of your good deeds an easy task.”

“Stop, I–”

“You have memorised books for me and Rose despite your supposedly _very strong_ aversion to the written word. You averted the apocalypse for the good of humanity and overcame so many odds. You have saved my life on _countless_ occasions, never expecting so much as a thank you for your selfless deeds. You have _saved_ people out of the sheer goodness of your heart and saved children from starvation and danger and more unkindness in this world for just a moment. _Every _day you do something, no matter how little that is, that makes my heart swell and makes me fall for you all over again. I… you are the kindest, most loving soul I know, Crowley.”

A comfortable silence descended on them. Crowley stared dumbly at the door, unable to process or absorb anything that Aziraphale had just said. All he knew was that his chest was warm and _full_, and for the first time all afternoon he found himself smiling–gentle, soft, and barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but a smile nonetheless.

“Should I continue or is that enough to get my point across? Because I have categorical examples for each if you wish to hear them.”

“No! No,” Crowley cleared his throat. He pulled his knees up to his chest and turned to his side, resting the left-hand side of his body against the door just so he could feel that little bit closer to him. “No, that’s enough, angel.” And after a long pause. “Thank you.”

“You are more than welcome, dear.” Aziraphale smiled, finishing off the last of his cocoa and setting the mug aside. “Are… are you ready to come out now?”

Crowley hesitated and pulled his knees closer, wrapping his arms around them to hold them tight. “N-No, angel. I can’t.”

“_Crowley_-”

“It’s not safe, Aziraphale. If… if it had been just one tiny, little temptation then, _maybe_ I would have gotten over all this by now. But I had her do so much. It was a long episode and I’ve hurt the both of you. I need more time.”

“Talk to me about it.”

Crowley scrunched his face up in a desperate attempt to keep his tears at bay. He shook his head as the memories of the afternoon came flooding back, trying to shake them loose from his brain but they continued to close in. The wind howled outside as another onslaught of rain pummelled the cottage from all angles.

“I know about the book,” Aziraphale offered, hoping that this would be enough to prove to Crowley that he was forgiven. Surely, if he knew that he had been forgiven for the worst of what was done then he could accept the fact that Aziraphale had forgiven him for everything else that could have possibly happened.

“Aziraphale, I _can’t_.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale whispered and nodded in acceptance.

Crowley chewed at his bottom lip as he tried to find something not entirely abhorrent that he could tell his husband about. His stomach twisted and churned at the thought of Aziraphale finding the book, about how the angel must have felt upon discovering it, about how the angel had even managed to find out... “What gave the book away?”

Aziraphale smiled. He had an in. “It was ever so slightly misplaced and smelled distinctly of you, my dear. Or rather, of you after you have committed a ‘_demonic intervention’_. I knew then that something dire had happened,” he took a deep breath. “But I was significantly more worried about you than Mr. Gray, and forgave you for it hours ago.”

“I broke the picture frame,” Crowley offered, his voice weak and barely audible through the door. “I- ah, I had R-” her name wouldn’t come to his lips. He shook his head again. “I had her throw it against the wall. One of the wings broke and the glass has fractured. I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale bent his knees up and slouched a little, letting some of the tautness dispel from his shoulders now that Crowley was finally talking to him about it, even in the barest of detail. There was actual substance here; he could use this. He gently pulled a small piece of fluff from his trousers that had found its home on his thigh and set it aside on the floor as he listened.

“That’s alright,” he said quietly. “Do you remember when that photograph was taken?”

“Uh,” Crowley tried to find the memory in the recesses of his mind. “It was a party at the bookshop a few years ago. I-I don’t remember much beyond that, angel. I was fairly drunk, if history has anything to say for itself.”

“No, dear, you weren’t drunk,” Aziraphale smiled, remembering the day fondly. “It was Rose’s second birthday party. Hell had called you away for some minor temptation or other up in Glasgow earlier that week, therefore we had elected to postpone any private celebrations until you got home. We hadn’t planned anything _fancy_, since it was just the three of us, of course but then Anathema called the shop once you had left…”

“And she asked you what time they should all arrive on Thursday. Adam and the Them and her and Newt had all decided to travel up together,” Crowley chimed in, his eyes closed while smiling at the memory to himself.

“You remember!”

“I remember you calling me and talking a mile a minute about party planning and how I needed to come home _this minute_,” he mimicked. “I had _just_ gotten into Scotland and had to turn around. Waste of bloody time if you ask me, I wasn’t even needed for the party planning.”

“W-Well,” Aziraphale stuttered. “It… it was your _presence_ I needed, Crowley. I needed you _here_ to look after Rose for when I had to perform a minor miracle at that little bakery that we all love, to get her cake completed in time. O-or when I had to run about half of London to acquire the correct bunting.”

“There is no such thing as _correct _bunting, angel.”

“_Yes, there is._” Aziraphale insisted before continuing. “_Anyway_. I had been stressed about the event ever since Anathema’s telephone call and you had listened to me vent from here to head office and back. Well, on the eve of the party the cooking had not gone to plan. The little sausage rolls had burnt and all but died and I was…”

“Having a typically Aziraphale-style, anxiety-fuelled freak out.”

“I was _not_ having a ‘typical freak out,’ Crowley. Need I remind you that I am recounting this tale for _your_ benefit and to cheer _you_ up, my dear.”

“Right. Yes. Sorry.”

“You had somehow managed to calm me down that evening and gotten me to lie down in bed. You had done the impossible and convinced me to take a short kip, assuring me that the bookshop would still be standing and everything would be _just_ as I had left it when I woke up in an hour or two,” Aziraphale smiled fondly as he reminisced. “However, I was _not_ roused and was, in fact, rather rudely left to sleep.”

“But you–”

“I know. _I know_ that I was pleased with the end result. But _at the time_, Crowley, I remember being _deeply_ upset with you. I woke to the sun streaming in through the curtains and birds chirping outside and-and the general hubbub of Soho which was _quite _the shock when I was expecting to wake up to darkness and peace and quiet.”

“It was only nine hours, angel. You’re being dramatic.”

“I most certainly am _not_, Crowley. You would have been taken by surprise, too, if it were the other way around,” he cleared his throat and straightened his waistcoat. “But to continue, when I woke up the next morning you were with Rose in the kitchen making some _delicious _crepes and singing some… _song _to her. Something modern, I don’t know w–”

“It was a Queen’s _I Was Born to Love You_. I used to sing it to her when she wouldn’t sleep and then she just… she started requesting it after a while.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale smiled. “I remember.”

“You came out of the bedroom in that god-awful housecoat that is thicker than the duvet on our bed,” Aziraphale made a noise of protest but Crowley persisted. “And you were rubbing at your eyes, your hair was an absolute mess, but you had never looked so angelic in your life. Fairly certain that I almost dropped the frying pan at the mere sight of you.”

If Crowley were being entirely honest with himself then he would admit that he simply _adored_ that old housecoat, despite it being the direct opposite of his own style. But it just screamed of Aziraphale, and that was _precisely_ why he loved it. The housecoat was thick, extra-padded to account for the cold winters of the 1880s–which was exactly when the angel had purchased the item–and in his typical style. It smelled distinctly of him and, while Crowley would never admit it, he had worn it once or twice when the angel had been away on a work trip to feel closer to him. It was in his typical tartan fashion, cream and beige, with silk the colour of robin’s egg blue accenting the lining the sleeves, lapels, and the interior of the garment.

Aziraphale blushed a soft pink. “After breakfast you told me to go inspect downstairs while you got Rose ready for her big day. I was… I was shocked at what I saw.”

“You _loved_ it,” Crowley snarled dismissively.

“I-I _did_, but at the time I was certainly taken aback, my dear,” Aziraphale corrected. Crowley breathed deep and waited patiently for Aziraphale to continue with the story. “I ventured down to the bookshop to find that you had decorated everything _perfectly_. It was all _just_ as I had imagined-”

“No, it wasn’t, angel.”

“Well,” he began, making sure to measure his words. “I-I… there may have been _a few_ things out of place f-from how _I_ would have done it but I, uh, I… _appreciated_ the effort, truly. Your changes were _delightful_.”

“Mm.” Crowley grunted in acknowledgement. His knees were still pulled close to this chest as he listened closely to Aziraphale, and his head had lolled to the side where it now rested comfortably against the door. He felt at ease, or at the very least calmer than he had all evening, listening to the angel recount a shared fond memory.

Wherever Crowley could contend a fact or make a small comment, he felt almost… normal, as if he and Aziraphale were in completely sane circumstances discussing something entirely, utterly ordinary.

“Do you remember all the changes, angel?” Crowley asked.

“Uh- of course, I do, Crowley. I resent that you think I would _not_. It is most unlike me to forget something so-”

“List them for me.” His voice was soft and gentle, eyes shut and face looking like a tired man simply drifting off to sleep after a particularly long day at work while listening to his other half ramble on about something inane.

“You had strewn black and white rose petals all over the shop, _including_ the stairs, when I had initially only procured white ones,” Aziraphale began, recalling the list of small changes. “You _somehow_ lined the _beautifully_ decorated cake, that I had _meticulously_ described to the baker, with black accents. It-it had taken me hours to describe _exactly_ what I desired- what _Rose_ had desired. We… we had decided on a two-tiered white cake with blue and pink streaks smeared along the top and bottom of each tier and gold leaf cascading across them both. Y-Your black accents changed the entire dynamic.”

“Rose didn’t seem to mind.”

“N-No…” Aziraphale’s voice drifted off. “But the principle of the matter, Crowley! We had worked very hard on that design for you to just…”

“What else do you remember, angel?” Crowley cut in. He was an expert on how to distract Aziraphale from getting lost on a train of thought.

“Apologies,” the angel said. “You had hung the bunting on every third bookcase when it should _really_ have been every _second_ bookcase. You had _also_ accented each piece with red silk which… well, that went quite well with the colour scheme after the-the flowers and whatnot. But! You had also replaced the end triangle on each thread with a black one and that most _certainly_ did not go with the colour scheme or the _mood_ of the event.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grumbled, a faint smile slithering onto his lips. “What else did I do that was wrong?”

“You changed the food, Crowley.” Aziraphale huffed. Crowley sniggered softly. “Granted, I had been the one to initially broach the topic of changing the menu for the event, but that was simply my frustration in the moment after I had accidentally burnt the sausage rolls.”

“Angel, need I remind you that _you_ ate the most at that party? If the food was so wrong, why in God’s name did you eat so much of it?”

“Well…” Aziraphale hesitated. “Because while it was _not_ what I had imagined the food or the party to be like, _at first_, it was much better than I could have ever hoped. And do you know _why_?”

“Do enlighten me.”

“Because you had put your _lovely_ little stamp on it, my dear. I couldn’t possibly question or alter anything you had added to that party because it just,” he sighed, in a way that people in love often do. “It screamed of you, Crowley. You had seemed so pleased with yourself when I returned upstairs and when Anathema or dear little Wensleydale praised the decorations or the food or the- the… the way that Rose looked at you, or… well, it warmed the cockles of my heart, my dear boy.”

“Warmed more than just the _cock_les of your heart, if I remember right,” Crowley snorted. He received a disapproving look from Aziraphale that he could feel even through the door and an extremely dramatic, but oh-so Aziraphale-esque, gasp.

“Crowley! It was our daughter’s birthday, for heaven’s sake. Don’t talk like that!”

“If memory serves correctly, angel, _you_ were the one to instigate the matter after politely shooing everyone out the door and putting Rose to bed. Personally, I cannot think of a better way to celebrate.”

“Well, I- uh-” Aziraphale stammered as he tried to grasp at a cohesive enough argument. “I- mm, perhaps you are right.” Crowley smiled to himself as a comfortable moment of silence descended between them.

“Anathema and Adam had been taking photographs all day, it felt like they were desperate to capture as much on film as humanly possible, honestly. You managed to corner me at one point with Rose in your arms and begged me for a picture of the three of us. Somehow managed to convince her to beg me too, freakin’ miracle if you ask me…” Crowley continued where Aziraphale had left off. He picked up the frame, rested it on his knees and looked at the image inside.

Looking at the photograph, his heart began to break all over again, shattering any sense of happiness and comfort he had begun to feel in Aziraphale’s presence. He tried to hide the sudden pain in his voice as he finished. “_Of course_, I bloody gave in with two sets of those big blue eyes staring up at me. But, uh…” he cleared his throat as a lump swelled in his throat and tears began to spring to his eyes once more. “I had my glasses off and you two there and we all looked so happy… _so happy._”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale hesitated to ask.

“Mm, yes. I’m fine,” Crowley replied hurriedly, sniffling and casting the frame aside. “I’m okay, angel.”

“But-”

“I’m _fine_, Aziraphale.”

They sat quietly for a few moments as Crowley tried to suppress his tears once more so as not to alert Aziraphale to his sudden backsliding on the scale of ‘okay-to-definitely NOT okay’. He hugged his knees closer to his chest as his insides began to clench and tighten, as the darkness threatened to encompass him all over again. Fuck.

On the other side of the door, Aziraphale had miracled himself another mug of cocoa–which was _of course_ not nearly as good as the real thing made properly in the _correct_ manner, but it would have to do while Crowley needed him here. He did not believe in the slightest that Crowley was ‘fine’ but to question him further would only lead to an argument the two of them would both regret and result to each feeling even worse this evening.

“How, uh… how was that book you got?” Crowley asked, timidly.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Oh, it’s _fantastic_, my dear. Of course, I have read the novel _many_ times already, but this first edition is simply brilliant. There were three spelling and grammatical errors that were not present in the copies I already possessed, and a couple of footnotes that had not made it to the second edition printings. It was _delightful_. She truly has a way with words. I look forward to reading it again when I get a moment.”

“Glad to hear it, angel.”

Crowley shifted to his knees again, forehead pressed against the door as he tried to find the energy and willpower inside him to open the door and see his angel. His hand hung loosely on the doorknob and his head hung low as he concentrated hard on the task at hand. But he still couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Suddenly, Aziraphale yawned. “Oh, I do apologise, my dear. It has been a very eventful day today.”

Crowley smiled. His eyes were still screwed shut as he now gripped the doorknob, desperate to push past his own demons and see Aziraphale instead of just hearing him on the other side of the thick wooden door.

“You sound tired, angel.”

“Mm, I am a tad,” said Aziraphale. He took another sip from his cocoa. “Will you come to bed?”

“I… I can’t… Not right now, angel.” Crowley hesitated. “You go on, though; you need your sleep.”

“I can quite easily sit here with you for the remainder of the evening, my dear, I-” he paused to yawn loudly–_obscenely_ even, Crowley might have said if he were in any mood to joke. “I wish to stay here with you.”

“Angel, you’re tired. I’m fine, just… just go. Don’t torture yourself simply because I’m being ridiculous.”

They went back and forth on this point for quite some time, Crowley practically dying to just open the door and do what Aziraphale desired; to do whatever would make him happy. But still, the door remained closed between them. Eventually they came to a decision that Aziraphale would, in fact, head to bed, but that Crowley would call him _instantly_ if he felt that he needed company or a hand with anything.

After much pottering about around the cottage–and taking no less than six minutes and thirty-eight seconds to wash his mug and wipe down the kitchen counter just to avoid the inevitable–he eventually returned to the door to check with Crowley one last time before slipping into their bedroom.

“Are you certain I cannot tempt you to join me, Crowley?”

“I… I can’t.”

“Right-o. Well,” Aziraphale paused and ran the tip of his forefinger down a ridge in the doorframe. “You know where I will be if you change your mind, yes?”

Crowley cracked a smile. “Yes, angel. I’m sure I will be able to find you somewhere within the cottage if I change my mind.”

“There is no need for sarcasm, my dear,” said Aziraphale. He took a moment to soften the tone of his voice. “Well, goodnight. I love you, Crowley.”

“I love you too, angel.” Crowley replied, his voice quiet and low. “Sorry about all of this.”

“Don’t fret about it for another second. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

And with that Aziraphale stepped into their bedroom, leaving Crowley truly and utterly alone for the evening. He flicked the bedside lamp on, illuminating the room in a soft yellow glow as he got himself ready for bed.

Now that he was alone, Aziraphale felt a great sense of emptiness and fatigue plague his physical form, as if all the energy he had housed for the last week had suddenly been drained from his very being. He didn’t feel _tired_, per say, just simply… exhausted; as if he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with his husband by his side and to gently fall asleep in his arms. But that was not possible this evening. He was reduced to solitude.

Aziraphale took his time getting ready for bed, due to both his lack of energy and his unease and uncertainty over leaving Crowley all alone in the other room. He had suggested and_ thoroughly_ argued that he could miracle up a camping bed and sleep outside the door so at least they were side by side, but Crowley had dismissed the idea and all but ordered him to go to bed upon hearing it.

The angel huffed as he slipped into his pale blue, striped pyjama’s, fumbling with each individual button–his fingers so used to Crowley doing it (and undoing it) for him on so many occasions that he now couldn’t find the perfect grip. After finally completing his pre-bed routine he slipped beneath the thick, red and black tartan bedsheets. As he untucked the edges the familiar smell of Crowley wafted up to him and caused his chest to tighten in regret and anxiety. He sighed heavily and forced himself to settle.

Aziraphale pulled the duvet back on Crowley’s side of the bed, positioning the sheets in the perfect manner to look positively inviting if, by some miracle, he decided to join him in here at some point in the night. Once happy with his work he snapped his fingers, miracling the copy of _Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde_ on his lap to read before bed, excited to reread the classic with the new knowledge that Crowley had memorised the entirety of it from cover to cover. He placed his reading glasses on the end of his nose as he propped himself up comfortably against the pillows and began to read.

Crowley was still on his knees, head thrown back as he stared hopelessly at the dark ceiling. He could barely see a thing in the darkness now that the sun had long disappeared past the horizon and as the storm continued to swell outside, blocking any sliver of moonlight that might have existed in the night sky.

Now that Aziraphale had gone to bed he felt a sudden sense of unyielding emptiness and weariness. He wanted nothing more than to slither into bed beside his husband, wrap himself up in his arms, and fall asleep in Aziraphale’s soft and heavenly embrace. But here he was, kneeling on the floor of their spare room, staring up at God and silently begging for the ability to escape; to find comfort and salvation in Aziraphale’s arms.

He picked the picture frame back up, running his thumb over the fractured glass as he tried to find the willpower within him to get up. After running a hand through his hair and taking a few shaky breaths he rose to his feet for the first time in hours. His knees shook in uncertainty beneath him, unsure of themselves as he shuffled forward and pressed himself against the door. He felt utterly exhausted from such a small exertion.

“Come on, you can do this,” he whispered to himself, hand tightly gripping the doorknob. “All you have to do is open this bloody door, Crowley. That’s it. Just open the door.”

He tried again. “Come on, come on, _come on_.” He urged and suddenly, his wrist moved, twisting the lock into its neutral position.

His eyes went wide.

Crowley opened the door hesitantly, scared that his body might betray him at any moment and slam it shut, leaving him alone in there for the foreseeable future. With the doorknob still in hand he stood in the open doorway, staring out at the empty hallway in a stunned state.

He looked down at the floor, at the clear divide between the wooden flooring of the spare room and the uneven stone in the hallway. His feet were still staunchly rooted on the wrong side of the divide. All he had to do was take one tiny little step forward.

Crowley lifted his gaze and stared out at the empty hallway; it was almost completely black, with only one light filtering into the darkness. A soft glow emanated from the open door of their bedroom, illuminating Aziraphale’s reading nook in an angelic haze and beckoning Crowley forward like a beacon of hope in the night sky. He caught himself smiling as the awareness that Aziraphale was just a few short steps away suddenly hit him and without thinking found himself shuffling forward until he was next to the bedroom door.

He lingered in the doorway, one foot in the door and left hand digging into the doorframe as he dared to look inside. Aziraphale was laid in bed, his short chubby legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed over with a book balanced precariously on his stomach. He was lost in the narrative, his eyes darting back and forth across the pages and his eyes lighting up as he read. Crowley’s insides tightened.

Something inside of him felt… _wrong_. It was as if he didn’t deserve to witness such innocence, was too far gone and too evil to watch his husband, an angel, _his _angel, in such a simple setting. He didn’t deserve to be here, to be anywhere near him. Or to be anywhere near Rose. Everything was wrong.

_I can’t be here_, he thought, _I _shouldn’t_ be here_.

He stepped back, peering around the corner at the open door to the spare room. The safety of the confining darkness calling to him like an old friend who just happened to have a lifetime supply of your favourite high with him and knew the perfect buttons to push in just the right sequence in order to draw you back in.

Maybe he could go back. Aziraphale would be none the wiser, wouldn’t even know Crowley had left the room and seen him here. He could just turn around right this second and slip away without him noticing. Yes, that was what he was going to do. He couldn’t do this right now, couldn’t deal with seeing the anguish and disappointment in Aziraphale’s eyes when he finally saw him, or with facing Rose and reality in the morning…

No. He needed to go back. He couldn’t do this. Not just yet. He just needed more time to organise everything and plan better. He had no idea what he was going to do now, here, in the hallway. He just needed to be alone in the spare room where it was safest for everyone.

As he stepped backwards, his shoe scuffed against the stone. Aziraphale’s head popped up from behind his book, like a startled meerkat, and the novel fell flat on his curve of his tummy.

“Crowley?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that it's been two Very angst heavy chapters but I promise that we end fluffy! I'll post the final chapter on Sunday if everything goes to plan


	3. Together

He paused by the door, his hand still clutching the frame as he hovered in the hallway, one foot in the bedroom and one foot out. He was in limbo. What in _someone’s_ name was he to do?!

“Crowley? Are you…?” he trailed off as he sat up in bed and placed his book aside to pay close attention to his husband. He was terrified of saying the wrong thing and spooking him, just one word out of place and everything could go terribly.

Crowley took a long and shaky breath. His head hung low to avoid Aziraphale’s gaze as he stepped further into the room, fully aware that one look from him and he could find himself sprinting back to the spare room before his mind could say ‘stop’. As he shuffled ever closer to the bed, Aziraphale watched his every move like a hawk.

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and anxious, desperate to say something or to reach out and touch him but terrified to his very core that whatever he did would be wrong and would ultimately scare Crowley away. He took his reading glasses off and gently placed them down on the bedside table, eyes still unwavering from Crowley as he pulled the duvet aside and slithered beneath the covers and into the warm confines of their bed.

He placed the picture frame on the bedside table and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s soft midriff, burying his face deep within the angel’s chest, holding him tight. The sudden touch awakened something in Aziraphale–it was as if time had stopped long ago and was now hurriedly trying to catch up with the present. He shifted into a comfortable position, lying on his side with Crowley still securely attached, and slid his arms around his shoulder’s, holding him close to his chest.

Crowley started to shake as tears began to wet the soft fabric of Aziraphale’s pyjama shirt and the weight of the world came crashing down on him.

“I’m so s-s-ssssorry, angel,” he blabbered into Aziraphale’s chest, words barely coherent enough for understanding.

“Shh. Shh, it’s okay, my dear,” he soothed. He slipped a hand into Crowley’s hair and began to play with the strands that lay at the back of his head to calm him. “I’m here. Everything is going to be alright.”

“_Fuck_,” Crowley said bitterly, the word sour on his tongue. “Sssshitting fuck. I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I-I don’t know what happened.”

“It is _all_ over now, my dear. Don’t think on it for another second. I’m here. It’s all quite alright now. Everyone is safe and sound, including you. Just breathe for me, nice and steady, Crowley. That’s it, nice and steady.”

Crowley took a deep breath and let it out slowly. In and out, in and out, in and out, until soon enough his chest no longer felt quite so tight and deadly. His breathing soon regulated and he was able to take in how good Aziraphale felt close to him; quickly realising how much he had missed being near him, able to touch his angel, to hold him, to breathe him in, and feel his warmth envelope him.

Everything was going to be alright. Soon enough.

They stayed there for a long time, wrapped up in each other’s arms with Crowley’s head buried safely in the soft, familiar haven that was Aziraphale’s chest and he would have remained there for the rest of time if it weren’t for Aziraphale making him move.

“Let’s get you ready for bed, dearest,” said Aziraphale, pulling his arms away from Crowley and beginning to peel him away so that he could move.

“No, angel. I-I’m fine,” Crowley groaned, fighting to stay connected to his husband, to feel his warmth around him, but Aziraphale was feeling particularly determined.

He freed himself from Crowley’s grasp and got out of bed, pulling the sheets aside–much to Crowley’s annoyance–and ran his palms up and down his calves. The demon rolled onto his back and flung an arm over his face, shielding his bright, teary eyes from view. The yellow of his eyes had now spread to cover the entirety of his eyeball to their original snake-like state and his pupils had blown wide, Crowley unable to control them in his debilitated state.

Aziraphale knelt down on the antique trunk situated at the foot of their bed and slipped Crowley’s black, snakeskin boots from his feet before placing them gently at the base of the trunk. He watched Crowley closely, sure to be gentle with every touch so as not to frighten him and accidentally send him running back to the spare room.

He leaned forward, unbuckling Crowley’s tight skinny jeans before gently tugging them down his extraordinarily long legs.

“Tell me something good, angel.”

Aziraphale’s head shot up to look at Crowley, caught unawares at the sudden request. He gulped quietly as he racked his mind for something to tell him, a memory so purely _good_ that Crowley would begin to feel better, to feel hope, salvation…

“Well, goodness,” Aziraphale mumbled as he wiggled the fabric down Crowley’s thighs, careful not to hurt or jostle him too much. He cleared his throat. “Once upon a time there was…”

“_Not_ fictional, angel. Something _real_.”

“If you would let me continue, my dear, it will all become clear,” Aziraphale said with perhaps too much force behind it. He started again. “Once upon a time, some five-thousand years ago now, there was an ark in the middle of the desert and a family loading it up with two of every animal they could. I had been charged with keeping an eye on the whole thing, to ensure that it all went to plan in the grand scheme of things…” he shimmied the black denim over Crowley’s ankles and began to fold them up neatly. “While I was there, a particularly _handsome_ demon approached me asking all these silly questions about what was going on and was rather distraught to discover that the Almighty was simply going to let everyone aside from the family and the inhabitants of the ark drown in a flood.”

“Not sounding very good so far, Aziraphale.”

“Apologies, my dear. I will move the story onward. Sit up for a moment, won’t you?” Crowley closed his eyes and did as he was asked, taking Aziraphale’s hands and letting himself be pulled into an upright position. When there, Aziraphale began to remove his jacket, necklace and shirt, taking great care to fold each item up and place it neatly on the trunk beside him.

“Soon the storm began and the ground was long gone from my sight. I travelled alongside Noah and his family to ensure that the whole dove thing would go ahead swimmingly and whatnot and I had begun to hear… peculiar noises below deck. Noah had simply dismissed these as the animals causing a ruckus when we were not looking, ‘_you know how they can be,’_ he would say, but I took it upon myself to explore a little further. It took three whole days until I found you hiding in the recesses of the boat, well below deck, surrounded by… goodness, it must have been at least thirty children and-”

“Forty-two.”

“What was that, dear?”

“It was forty-two kids. I still remember their names.”

Aziraphale smiled, that soft kind of smile when your other half does something particularly endearing and you can’t help but look at them like they’re your whole world. Crowley could think himself as pure evil and not worthy of an angel’s love and affection all he liked, but the small things in his multitude of good and kind and nice acts that he still remembered after all this time were enough to confirm that he was truly good at his core.

“Okay, I made my way into this small room nearby the herbivore section of the boat and stumbled across you, and _forty-two_ children, huddled in this dark little place. You all looked terrified at having been found, I had heard you shushing them all prior to my entrance, and the… the look of fear in your eyes at being found out, I will never forget it.”

Crowley smiled, eyes still closed and chin practically pressed against his bare chest. He, too, remembered the look on Aziraphale’s face when he had walked into that tiny room full of children ranging from six-months-old to eleven-years-old. They had been passing around a flagon on water that he had miracled into existence, sharing it equally between them–now fairly used to the routines they had created around drinking and eating in the past twelve days of travel. Aziraphale’s mouth had dropped wide open upon entering, pure shock encompassing his entire physical being, and then… something short of anger and disbelief clouded his countenance upon realisation that it was in fact Crowley surrounded by the many, many children.

Aziraphale folded Crowley’s shirt and placed it atop the blazer and jeans he had already removed from his husband’s tired body. He snapped his fingers, miracling a set of Crowley’s favourite pyjamas before him–a black silk button down with a dark red lining along all seams alongside matching pyjama bottoms.

He slipped the sleeves onto Crowley’s wrists and lifted it over his head gently. After settling the shirt into the perfect position on his torso he took his time to fasten each button before brushing a thumb along Crowley’s chin, a small gesture that was just enough.

“Do you remember what you said to me?” Aziraphale asked quietly. “You can sit back now, if you wish, dearest.”

Crowley stayed sat upright and raised his head, opening his eyes to reveal the beautiful, gems that lay beneath. Aziraphale could have gladly gotten lost in those eyes for the rest of his life.

“I said, ‘hey, Aziraphale, how’ve you been?’ in a nice, cheery voice but when you shot me a particularly disapproving look and gestured to the magnitude of children around me I changed tactics and told you that _technically_ because it was in God’s ineffable plan for all locals to drown in the flood my saving them was actually an act of evil. Which I still stand by.”

“Of course it is, dear,” Aziraphale smiled, balling the pyjama bottoms in his fist to slip them on to Crowley’s ankles easily. Crowley settled back down as Aziraphale slowly edged the smooth silk up his husband’s legs as far as he could without assistance. “I had sat down next to you, where you were nursing a young babe, it couldn’t have been more than a few months old, with a small jug of warm milk you had procured from the female goat on board. The children enjoyed your company and were so grateful to you throughout the trip.”

Aziraphale clambered up the bed and settled in beside Crowley, who had finished dressing in the time it had taken Aziraphale to get comfortable. Aziraphale covered them back up with the thick duvet, but as Crowley began to settle in beside him, he noticed a dark red mark on the demon’s palm. He grabbed his hand and turned it to inspect the mark.

“Crowley, you’re bleeding.”

Crowley snatched his hand back abruptly. “It’s fine, angel. I just caught it on the picture frame when I picked it up. It’s nothing.”

“That is _not _nothing, Crowley,” he reached out for the hand, but was unable to grasp it. “Let me fix it for you, _please_.”

“_No._” He snapped, pulling away and sitting up. “Just leave it, angel. I… I need to remember tomorrow that this wasn’t all just a bad dream, I can’t just pretend this didn’t happen. I’ll fix it when… when I’m ready.”

Aziraphale’s face softened, letting Crowley know that it was safe for him to let his guard down and let him in again, that he wouldn’t question his behaviour about this anymore tonight. After a few awkwardly quiet moments he settled back down, resting his head on the angel’s soft, plush chest and sighing heavily, as though a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders once more.

“Finish the story, please, angel.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers to turn the bedside lamp off and made himself comfortable, before wrapping his arms around his husband once more. He knotted his fingers in the demon’s hair and aimlessly played with his silky locks.

“Alright. I sat with you for a while and as you tended to the children I watched them quietly play, all of them so aware that they were not supposed to be there and many of the older children clearly understanding that they would not see their families again… it was _harrowing _to know that my side had caused so much pain and destruction. After much debate you managed to convince me to keep your secret for the remainder of the journey and I did just that, convincing Noah and his son’s and their families that any voices they felt they had heard from below deck was merely the Almighty testing them while out at sea.

“When the dove appeared and the sea ebbed away, revealing the fresh, plentiful ground beneath, you and the children had slipped out as though you had never been there in the first place. I had checked everywhere after ensuring that all creatures, including Noah and his family, had exited the ark safely and securely but there was no trace of you,” he smiled into the darkness as he felt Crowley’s breathing grow ever softer. “Aside from the scent of you that lingered wherever you went. I didn’t see you for quite some time after that. I had heard rumour of you from time to time and knew that you were safe from the ever-present sense that you were still on the world, and often wondered what happened to all of those children after the ark. But some things aren’t meant to be known.”

Aziraphale tilted his neck to look down at the demon now sleeping soundly in his arms and smiled in satisfaction. Truth be told, he had been awfully concerned that Crowley would not come out of the spare room until the morning, even worrying that he would be in there for the remainder of their trip for a brief stint. Now, here in their bed, he was able to take a moment to enjoy the fact that he was safe in his arms, in their bed, close to him and sheltered from whatever troubles lay ahead in their foreseeable future.

Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale did not particularly feel _tired_ in the truly human sense of the word. Granted, since Rose had come into their lives he had often experienced days of utter exhaustion and tiredness where all he could think about was how nice it would be to get into bed and fall asleep for the better part of a day–or a century, in Crowley’s case. Today was, in fact, one of those days where he felt his body begging for the sweet relief of sleep to wash over him, but right now, staring at Crowley’s soft, innocent, sleeping face he didn’t want the moment to end.

Aziraphale soon dozed off, however, and after some time Crowley rolled over to his side of the bed as he did most nights. But unfortunately, this was not just any other night.

Shortly after dawn Crowley began to stir in his sleep. His dreams had been uneventful, to an extent, for the majority of the night, playing out the fond memory of his experience on the ark, following Aziraphale’s reminiscing. Now, however, they had taken a sudden turn for the worst.

“R… _Rose_,” Crowley mumbled, his body curling in on itself like a coiled spring ready to burst free at the slightest addition of pressure. He began to tug at the duvet, his fists tightening around the plush fabric and dragging it toward him with quite some force.

Aziraphale groaned, waking up as the cool night air suddenly hit his side, now completely uncovered by the duvet. Mild frustration at his newfound consciousness began to fill him up, but was quickly replaced by concern as to _why_ the duvet was no longer in his possession.

“No. _N-No_, stop!” Crowley whined, voice desperate and soft. Red flags began to fire in the angel’s mind and he now found himself considerably more conscious than a moment ago.

“Crowley?” he asked into the darkness, stretching out a hand and brushing his fingertips along the taut muscles of his husband’s forearm. He was tense to the touch, knuckles turning white where he was holding the duvet in an iron-like grip and body scared, ready to defend itself. He was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, but felt freezing cold to the touch.

“No, stop! St-”

Crowley sat bolt upright, gasping for breath and Aziraphale was now completely and utterly awake, ready to provide some aid in whatever was happening. Crowley’s eyes shot wide open and scanned the room in desperation as he tried to find something to root him in reality. He slid his hands into his hair, pushing it out of his face and gripping it tight in an attempt to feel something, _anything_, that would tell him that _this_ was reality. That what he’d just seen and felt and experienced was just a bad dream. For the love of Go- Sa- someone, it _had _to have been a dream.

“Crowley? What’s wrong?” Aziraphale sat up, wrapping his right hand around Crowley’s arm and placing the other between his shoulder blades, where he began to rub small circles into the taut muscles there in an attempt to soothe him.

“I-I need to check on her,” he muttered in response, shaking Aziraphale off and launching himself out of bed, throwing the duvet aside as he did so. Before the angel could process what had just happened, Crowley was charging out of their bedroom and through the cottage toward Rose’s room.

Aziraphale stared at the empty space next to him for a moment, before quickly following his husband to the other room. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he pushed Rose’s door open a little wider and stepped into the room.

There, before him, was Crowley on his knees next to her bed. He brushed the bright red locks out of her face and took the care to gently tuck them behind her ear before marvelling at the innocence on her sleeping face.

Aziraphale walked toward him, careful not to make a sound. He was sure that if Rose were to wake up now with them both here that Crowley would ultimately blame himself for disturbing her over nothing more than a bad dream.

He stood at Crowley’s side and knotted a hand in his hair, where he began playing with the short strands that lay at the back of his head tenderly. Crowley’s shoulders slumped almost instantly at the gentle touch, shortly followed by him resting his head against the angel’s soft, plump thigh.

“I’m sorry, I-” he began, but Aziraphale cut him off.

“Shh. Shh, it’s quite alright, dear. Rose is safe and sound, fast asleep and in a lovely little dream. We are all safe. It’s alright,” he whispered, watching the light from Rose’s starry night-light dance across her and Crowley’s features as it spun about, slowly rotating the constellations. “Let’s go back to bed, hmm? Come on.”

Aziraphale slipped his hand out of Crowley’s hair and down to his cheek, running his thumb along his sharp cheekbone. His eyes were closed as he soaked in the gentle touch, warmth spreading through his chest as he tenderly kissed the angel’s palm.

“Come on, dear,” he urged.

Crowley did as he was instructed, finding his way to uncertain and shaky feet. Aziraphale took his hand and guided him out of the room, both of them taking one last look at their daughter, fast asleep, and curled up in bed, before closing the door quietly behind them. He followed Aziraphale back through the cottage and into their room, led by his hand, until left to crawl into his side of the bed.

Once back in the safe confines of his angel’s arms he found himself holding on tight, scared to ever let go, lest the darkness of his psyche come for him again.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale whispered, tightening his hold on his husband so that he knew that he was safe here, in his arms. “Would… would you like to tell me what happened?”

“I… p-please. Just don’t leave me.”

“I wouldn’t ever _dream_ of such a thing, my dear. I’m right here.”

“I thought I’d d-done it again. That I’d t-tempted her…” he whispered into Aziraphale’s chest. “B-B-But this time she hurt herself and I did nothing to stop her. I _encouraged_ it even. I was screaming inside, begging her to stop, to get away but no matter what I did she couldn’t… couldn’t hear me. It was Hell, _worse_ than Hell. I…”

“It’s okay. I’m right here, Anthony. Nothing is going to hurt her, let alone you. You are the most attentive, _loving_ father I have ever known. I know you would never do _anything_ to harm a single hair on her beautiful head. It’s all alright.”

“I love you so much, angel. Don’t ever leave.”

Crowley spent the better part of the next hour explaining his dream and certain events of the day to Aziraphale as best he could, repeatedly getting choked up and having to stop himself from divulging further until he had gotten a hold of himself. The two of them eventually drifted back off to sleep, wrapped up in each other’s arms and safe from the outside world.

~*~

The next morning Crowley woke up to the delicious smell of cooked bacon and fresh crepes drifting in from the kitchen. He was alone in bed, Aziraphale’s side made up and looking as pristine as it always did while his was a tad more dishevelled and looking very slept-in.

He sat up slowly, rubbing at his red raw eyes that ached from past tear’s and a severe lack of a good night’s sleep. As he pulled his hand away from his face he inspected the small slit that lined his palm, the memory of the broken picture frame and all of the past day’s events flooding back.

It was as though he had been punched in the gut, all the air leaving his body instantly as he remembered.

But he was here, in his bed, in their bedroom, free from the spare room and his crushing subconscious… so something _good_ must have happened that he had somehow wiped from his memory. He looked about the room for something to jog his memory.

First, he noticed his clothes folded neatly on the old, brown leather trunk at the foot of the bed, vaguely remembering Aziraphale insisting that he get ready for bed and lovingly helping him do so. Soon thereafter, his eyes landed on the aforementioned picture frame, in pristine condition, standing upright on his bedside table.

He blinked, not quite trusting his own eyes just yet. Crowley furrowed his brow as he picked the frame up to inspect it in closer detail, utterly baffled.

There it was, in all it’s glory. The broken black wing that had cut him yesterday was back to normal, not a scratch or crack in sight; the fractured glass that had distorted the photograph beneath was now in perfect condition; and his blood that had stained the beloved image of the three of them was nowhere to be seen, the photograph untarnished and back to its former glory.

The sound of Aziraphale and Rose giggling from the other room snapped him out of his confusion, wrenching his heart out of his chest. He placed the picture frame back on the bedside table and got up, collecting a pair of sunglasses from the drawer and placing them on as he made his way out to the kitchen.

“Daddy!” Rose beamed as she spotted him shuffling uncertainly toward them. “You’re awake! We lets you sleep!”

“Hey, Rosie,” he choked, his voice cracking as a multitude of emotions swept over him. “I uh… what’s this?”

Aziraphale smiled as he dished up a fresh plate of crispy bacon and crepes with a small jug of maple syrup on the side for Crowley. He straightened his waistcoat out after placing the plate down in the demon’s usual place, opposite Rose, and sat down in his own seat between the two of them.

Crowley kissed the crown of Rose’s head and inhaled deep, savouring the familiar sweet smell of her that had the magical, mystical quality of soothing his soul no matter what. He sat down in his favoured spot and smiled at Aziraphale reassuringly, hoping that he did not look too much into the fact that he was wearing his sunglasses indoors with just the three of them here.

“How did you sleep?” Aziraphale asked, slicing up a crepe from his plate and popping it into his mouth. He wiggled in his seat and moaned as the deliciousness melted on his tongue, the sugar and lemon hitting all the right spots.

“Uh, good. Good. I-uh, what’s all this?”

“Breakfast!” the angel beamed, motioning to the large spread before them.

The table was full to the brim with an assortment of foods, as it was most mornings in the cottage; now that the angel, renowned foodie, had as much time as he desired to prepare a relative smorgasbord for them all, something for everyone to delve into no matter their preference when it came to breakfast foods.

There was a variety of cold cuts and cheeses–constantly kept at the perfect temperature, of course–and assortment of cereals ranging from healthy granola to slightly unhealthier co-co pops, alongside freshly pressed juices from the apple tree out back and the oranges Aziraphale kept fully stocked at all times for a light afternoon snack. Next to this, there was a pot of recently brewed coffee to Crowley’s left, as far away from Rose as possible despite it being in a perfectly sealed container that had been tried and tested many times for child proofing purposes. And of course, there was sugar and milk readily available in amongst the food and drink. He poured himself a mug of black coffee.

On the countertop was an almost empty jug of batter for Aziraphale’s–and now Crowley’s– crepes and a plate of crispy bacon for whomever deigned to eat it.

With his fork, Crowley poked at the food on his plate, pushing it about as he picked at the contents. He had no appetite this morning. Compared to Aziraphale and Rose he didn’t particularly _have_ one most days, his true nature taking over in most dining situations, even after all these years, but today, he felt no hunger in him whatsoever. There was often a lingering desire for nourishment _somewhere_ within his being when it came to breakfast, lunch, and/or dinner when he had to assist in cooking for and feeding Rose over the years, or when he had had to sit opposite Aziraphale in more restaurants than he dared to count throughout eternity, but today there was nothing.

He was fully aware of Aziraphale’s eyes on him, watching him as he ate, as subtle as the angel was trying to be, and so forced himself to pick at the food on his plate to appease him; to give him nothing more to worry about so early in the day. He did not think he could cope with more guilt on his conscience concerning Aziraphale’s worry for him.

“What would you like to do today, my little cherub?” the angel asked, pinching Rose’s rosy cheeks and smiling sweetly at her.

Rose took a moment to think, a worry line forming between her dark eyebrows as she debated the many, _many_ options available to her for the day ahead. “Can we visit the sheepies at the farm?”

“Well, I think that is an _excellent _idea. I’m sure Ms. Parker would simply _love_ to have some assistance today, especially after last night’s storm,” he beamed, waving his fork about animatedly as he spoke. “Perhaps we could ask for some of their wool for the birds to make nests at the bottom of the garden.”

“Can daddy come?”

They both turned to look at Crowley, who had been absentmindedly watching the two of them interact, more than happy to watch and listen. He cleared his throat and placed his fork aside as he scrambled for some excuse to not join them on their little day trip.

“I, uh- I was gonna do a little gardening. Make sure all the- that everything’s okay after the storm, you know? But you two have fun. I’ll make up a nice, warm dinner for when you get back,” he forced a smile to reassure them that everything was alright. It did not appear to work in the way he had hoped. “Hold down the, uh, the fort.”

Crowley popped another small piece of bacon into his mouth and chewed, hoping that his eating would be enough to distract his husband and daughter from watching him like hawks. After a few moments of awkward silence they returned to their own breakfasts, pretending that everything was entirely normal.

“Well, I will telephone the farm in a little while and, if she is willing, we can pop round there after lunch, hmm?” Aziraphale asked, looking to Rose who smiled and nodded. She ladled another spoonful of porridge into her mouth and wiggled in her seat, unexpectedly mirroring Aziraphale just as she did most mealtimes. “Perhaps you could organise your toy chest with daddy while I finish tidying the house this morning.”

“Oh, I-” Crowley began to protest.

“Yeah! We can have a tea party!” Rose chimed in, throwing her hands in the air in excitement. Crowley looked at Aziraphale imploringly, who simply smiled sweetly at him as their daughter giggled loudly. “Daddy can kiss Sir Hedgehog again!”

Crowley blushed and half-smiled. He pushed a slice of his crepe around the plate with his fork absentmindedly. “Not if it makes all the other attendees upset again, angel. We can’t be disappointing all your toys two days in a row now, can we?”

“Nope!” Rose shook her head in exaggeration and popped a raspberry from her plate into her mouth, giggling the entire time.

Aziraphale and Rose went back to eating their breakfasts, each savouring the delicious food that the angel had lovingly prepared for the three of them. Crowley, now that all eyes were off him, pushed the food about his plate rather than eating it. His arms were crossed, leaning on the edge of the table as he poked and prodded the strips of bacon and (now soggy) crepe in circles.

Rose, without warning, stood up on her chair and thrust a spoonful of porridge across the table at Crowley. Her brows were knitted together and a frown was plastered on her face in stubborn annoyance.

“Eat, daddy!” she ordered.

Crowley placed his fork down and stared past his glasses at her. She thrust it forward again, this time with more determination, her frown unwavering. Her eyes begged him to take the offering.

“Ngk. I, uh-”

“Eat it, daddy.”

Crowley looked to Aziraphale for assistance but was met with a minute shrug and nothing more. A string of incoherent sounds passed the demon’s lips as she urged the spoon further forward and began making quiet choo-choo noises to incentivise him.

He smiled softly, took the spoon off her, and popped it into his mouth. The porridge was sweet and warm as he forced himself to swallow it before returning the spoon to Rose’s bowl.

“Mm, that’s delicious, angel. Thank you.”

Rose picked the spoon back up, scooping up another spoonful and held it out for him to take again. “More,” she urged, smiling; happy with the outcome of her first endeavour.

Crowley held out his hand dismissively, waving her off.

“No, angel. I’m good. I’ve got my own breakfast here,” he smiled and took a long sip of his coffee.

“You’re not eating it though,” she frowned, lowering her hand and dropping the spoon back into her bowl.

“I… uh,” he put down the mug and rubbed at his eyes. “I-I’m not hungry, angel. I don’t eat as much as you and papa, remember?”

“But you didn’t eats dinner,” she argued. “And you were sad. People need to eat when they’re sad or it makes them even more sad. That’s what you said when I am and… and we don’t lie.”

Crowley got up from his seat and knelt down next to Rose’s, placing a tentative hand on the small of her back as she turned to look at him. “You’re right; we don’t lie. You and papa need to eat lots throughout the day, right?” Rose nodded. “Well _that_ is because you two get really, really hungry and upset if you don’t so you eat to feel good and energised again.” Rose nodded again to show that she understood. “So, my _true_ form is a snake. That snake exhibit we saw at the zoo that one time who explained to us all about their lifestyles, what did they say about food? Do you remember?”

“Mm,” she thought for a second. “That they don’t needs to eat for a week.”

“That’s right!” he smiled, squeezing her back gently in adoration. “So I don’t get as hungry as you and papa. I can go weeks and weeks without food whereas papa can maybe go… twenty minutes?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale lovingly chastised, giggling his way around the word.

Crowley removed his hand from her back and ran it through her hair, brushing it behind her ears with his fingertips. “How are you feeling today, baby?”

“Good,” she smiled, shoving another spoonful of porridge into her mouth. “You and papa were in my dream.”

Rose proceeded to recount her amazingly wonderful dream that involved unicorns, faeries, mermaids, and both Aziraphale and Crowley with their wings spread, carrying her through the skies with magical, sparkling, rainbow dust flowing behind them as they went. They both listened intently, nodding and ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the appropriate junctures and asking questions when allowed the opportunity. It was the most normal Crowley had felt in the last day.

After breakfast Aziraphale assisted in getting Rose dressed for the day–since he himself was already dressed and ready for the day ahead–while Crowley sorted himself out and began to wash up the morning’s mess. He could hear giggling from her bedroom as Aziraphale fought to get her into her chosen clothing for the day; a mint-green summer dress with white polka dots accompanied by a pair of thick, black and red striped knee-length socks that she would wear with wellie-boots when they ventured off to the farm in a short while.

Aziraphale settled her in the front room with an untouched colouring book and her colouring pens, pencils, and crayons before joining Crowley in the kitchen. He sidled up next to him, running his left hand down his spine gingerly.

“You don’t have to do that, you know, dearest. I would have done it.”

“Eh, I know,” Crowley mumbled, shrugging. “You were dealing with Rose. _And_ you made all of this, I’ve got to do my part somewhere, angel.”

Aziraphale continued to stand by his side, running his hand up and down Crowley’s spine as he watched his husband work. They didn’t say much of anything, simply stood there washing up and enjoying each other’s company. As Crowley finished washing up the last plate and placed it in the drying rack, Aziraphale piped up.

“It’s looking awfully lovely out there today. Don’t you think?”

“Mm, storms in the springtime always give everything a nice sheen,” Crowley remarked as he grabbed the tea towel and dried his hands. He refused to make eye contact with his husband, knowing full well that with Rose preoccupied in the other room that he would want to discuss Real topics that Crowley would much rather avoid at the present moment in time. He stared out the window at the garden, watching the birds venture out of their homes to collect the worms and bugs that had emerged from the earth after the storm.

Aziraphale hooked his forefinger under Crowley’s chin and turned his head to face him. He gave him a reassuring look, as if to tell him that everything was going to be okay and no words needed to be spoken if the demon did not wish to discuss such matters. He slipped Crowley’s glasses off and placed them down on the countertop.

“There. Much better,” he whispered. He stepped closer to him, raising himself up on his tip toes to better kiss him.

Crowley softened at the touch, a hand coming up to rest gently on Aziraphale’s hip to hold him close. They lingered there for a moment, melting into the kiss and loving proximity, lost in their own little bubble.

That is, until Rose piped up with a loud, “Ewww!” from the living room. Crowley sniggered into the kiss and pulled away, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s, not quite ready to break away from his touch just yet.

Shortly before lunchtime, Rose tired of colouring and wished to play tea with her dolls and Crowley. He had been pottering about the garden for the majority of the morning, clearing any debris the storm had caused overnight and repotting a few plants that could really have been doing with a smidge more room to roam. Rose had come bounding out to him, full of beans, to request his presence at the tea party which he simply _couldn’t _refuse.

They enjoyed themselves for the most part. Crowley lay flat on his stomach on the old, worn rug in the living room with his legs swinging in the air behind him as he watched Rose ‘refill’ the teacups of her patrons. Her long, gangly legs were stretched out, boxing off the tea party that was taking place between them.

Aziraphale had just sat down at the dining table with his back to the two of them, opposite his usual seat. He had set up various little bottles, brushes, a sewing kit, and a hardback book from what Crowley could see from his slightly obscured view from the floor.

Crowley now found himself watching the angel rather than paying attention to the invigorating tea party that was taking place directly in front of him. He wondered what Aziraphale was doing, being so secretive, shielding the work from the two of them by sitting in the wrong chair.

Sooner rather than later, Crowley was unable to push aside the desire to know what was going on with Aziraphale on the table. He had managed to convince himself that he simply wanted to fetch a cup of water for himself and Rose, while also not-so-secretively spying on whatever his husband was up to as he did so.

As Crowley poured himself a glass of water, he peered over his shoulder to look at the tabletop to see that Aziraphale was merely mending a book. At first glance, this was no interesting activity, and was something that Crowley would find the angel doing countless times over the years in the bookshop, but after a second look he was able to make out the title of the book… _The Picture of Dorian Gray._

It wasn’t any old book that Aziraphale had just so _happened_ to feel the need to mend while he had some spare time on their little getaway… it was the book that he had had Rose destroy yesterday before finally snapping out of his temptation trance.

It was as if someone had sucker punched him in the gut. It took all his might not to double over and fall to his knees there and then, instead clutching at the countertop for dear life while he caught his breath. Crowley inhaled deep, counted to ten, and exhaled, repeating the process over and over until he no longer had to hold himself up. He took a long sip from his glass and slithered into his usual seat at the table, careful not to make a sound and startle Aziraphale.

He slowly reached over to the book and slid it out from beneath Aziraphale’s gloved hands, gently moving it away from the angel until it was directly in front of him instead. He stared at the open book as he slid on the spare pair of gloves Aziraphale had laid out on the table–there just in case his caught a tear or got soiled in some manner.

Crowley could feel Aziraphale watching him.

“Tell me what to do,” he choked out, quietly, unable to raise his voice any higher. The angel’s face softened immediately at Crowley’s words. He gently placed his own gloved hand over the demon’s, squeezed it tightly, and then began to explain the process for book mending.

After Crowley had successfully reattached a few pages himself, under Aziraphale’s careful supervision of course, Rose came over to investigate, curious as to what was so interesting for both of her parents to ignore her and sit at the dining table, without the allure of food.

Crowley pulled her up onto his lap and kissed the top of her head as Aziraphale miracled up a pair of miniature gloves for her to assist.

“Do you remember what we did yesterday, Rose?” Crowley asked, running his covered forefinger down the damaged edge of the next page.

Rose nodded. “We did lots of bad stuff.”

“Yes, we did,” Crowley nodded. “We damaged one of papa’s favourite books yesterday and that was a _very _bad thing to do since he loves it very, _very _much. But things can be fixed. Like,” he swallowed the lump in his throat. “L-Like the paint I had you smear all over the floor and the walls, remember? I scrubbed it all off because afterwards I knew that it was wrong to make you do that and it needed to be fixed.”

“And just because we have certain powers that others might not have on this earth, we take the time to fix our problems the old-fashioned way, my little firecracker. We don’t simply miracle all things back to the way they were, otherwise we shall never learn. For the hard-working of us are the first to receive their reward,” added Aziraphale.

“The point is,” Crowley continued. “We don’t leave things broken in this family, angel. We… we work hard to fix things that are broken and we take the time to mend them properly, as a _team_. We learn and achieve nothing if we don’t work together. Does that make sense?”

Rose thought over all of this for a second before nodding and wiggling her bony bum on Crowley’s, equally bony, thigh. “How do we fix it?”

Aziraphale motioned for Crowley to explain the process, the two of them taking the time to demonstrate how to mend the individual pages before eventually allowing her to attempt it herself–completing the job with better skill than Crowley’s first seven pages put together.

After successfully mending the book they helped themselves to lunch, picking at a variety of snacks as the two of them joined Rose and her toys for the remainder of the tea party that had taken a minor recess on the old, worn rug. Aziraphale rested his head comfortably on Crowley’s shoulder as they snacked and watched Rose share her food and play with the other attendees. In their own secret little language, developed over the last six millennia, the two of them silently communicated how precious she was here and now, innocently playing like any other child on small break, and just how well a job they seemed to be doing thus far in raising her. She was truly a picture to behold to the two loving parents.

Later that afternoon the three of them journeyed to the neighbouring farm, owned by a lovely young farmer, and assisted in aiding Ms. Parker in any odd jobs she needed completing after the storm in exchange for a small bag of sheep’s wool to put out for the birds and their nests. Ms. Parker was extremely grateful for their assistance and attempted to repay them numerous times in more than just sheep’s wool, but the two of them refused the repeated offers time and time again, making it clear they simply wished to help and give Rose a little run around in the fresh air with the animals.

It took a while for Aziraphale and Crowley to trust him alone with their daughter again, secretively–neither daring to share their shameful fears with the other for fear of judgement for such a silly thing. It passed eventually, as all bad things do, and the three of them continued their lives in blissful harmony just as the Almighty had planned… although, these sorts of things are famously ineffable.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading this far, I hope you've enjoyed it so far and if not, then sorryyy. I've written the entirety of this already but decided it was WAY too long to post in one chapters with a good conscience. I'll probably post them a few days apart so people won't have to wait too long for it and the whole thing should be up soon enough, but a bit of anticipation is always fun! :)


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